THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SW* 


cy 


PROFUSELY  ILLUSTRATED. 


The  Bow-Knot  Publishing  Co. 
124  DEARBORN  STREET. 


Copyright,  1894, 

BY  WILLIAM   LIGHTFOOT  VISSCHER, 
[All  Rights  Reserved.] 


V  85  ,  u 

Contents   ... 

HARP  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

GYPSEY. 

A  LITTLE  SHOE. 

A  WIDE  FELT  WANT. 

JOSEPHETA. 

THE  GOVERNOR'S  VIOLIN. 

BARBARIC  INDIGNATION. 

SORRY  FOR  THE  LORD. 

THE  SWEETEST  SONG. 

TACOMA. 

CASTELAR. 

ITA  EST. 

His  ANGEL  SLEPT. 

JIM  MARLTNSPIKE. 

JE  Suis  TRET. 

LOVE'S  JUBILEE- 

COME  DREAMS. 

SANDY  McCANN. 

GIRLS  OF  GONHOSE- 

POET  SCOUT. 

OLD  MART  AND  ME. 

JULEY  ANN. 

RECOMPENSE. 

A  MEMORY  AND  A  TEAR. 

RHODA  RAGLAND. 

DOWN  SOUTH. 


759808 


'Tis  MORE  THAN  ALL. 

ALEXANDER  SALVINI. 

WASHINGTON. 

CHRISTMAS  IN  DK  OLD  TIME. 

MY  MOTHER'S  WEDDING  RING. 

SOME  SINGIN'. 

GIVE  THANKS. 

MARGARET. 

THE  GOURD  BESIDE  THE  SPRING. 

PANSY  PICTURES. 

THE  SPEAR  OF  GOLD. 

OLD  CATO'S  CREED. 

WHERE  MY  HONEY  SLEEPS. 

PARADOX. 

BABY'S  MORNING. 

MOUNT  OF  THE  HOLY  CROSS. 

JUBE'S  OLD  YALLER  DOG. 

LE  REVE. 

BILL  NYE. 

MY  VILLAGE  HOME. 

A  MODERN  TEMPLE. 

THE  OLD  LOG  CHURCH 

IMPROMPTU. 

THE  KAINTUCKIAN'S  LAMENT. 

IN  DEATH   AND  DEATHLESS  FAME;. 

COMING  To  ME. 

CANDO. 

THE  POET  KING. 

JIM'S  LETTERS. 

DAUGHTERS  OF  AMERICA, 

RENAISSANCE. 


Qebication. 

With  admiration  for  the  men  whose  talents, 
genius  and  work  accomplish  beautiful  things 
in  art,  and  with  special  gratitude  to  that  bril 
liant  coterie  from  among  them  who  by  their 
illustrations  in  this  volume  have  given  it  its 
best  worth,  the  author  esteems  it  an  honor  to 
inscribe  this  work  to  Messrs.  Tom  J.  Nicholl, 
Angus  McNeill,  Tom  E.  Powers,  Carolus  Bren 
ner,  \Y.  Wallace  Denslow,  Horace  Taylor, 
Harry  O.  Landers  and  Wm.  R.  Goodall,  artists, 
and  Edward  L.  Powell,  engraver. 


HARP   OF   THE   SOUTH. 


ARP  of  the  North,"  the  Wizard  sang, 

And  tuned  his  glowing  lays 
'Mid  gallant  deeds  and  battle's  clang 

And  clan  to  clan's  affrays. 
Could  I  but  sing  so  sweet  a  song— 

And  strong— as  Scotia's  bard, 
I'd  ring  the  charge  of  every  wrong 
Till  tyranny  set  guard; 
More  fit,  for  me,  a  sweet  refrain 

Of  home  and  long  ago. 
Harp  of  the  South,  I  strike  again 

The  dear,  old,  quaint  banjo. 
No  organ's  diapason  swell, 
In  grand  cathedral,  dim, 
E'er  on  the  heart  of  novice  fell, 

In  vesper's  sacred  hymn, 
With  more  impress  of  love  and  soul, 

And  deep  devotion  true, 
Than  Southern  song  to  mem'ry's  goal 
Thus  borne,  my  harp,  by  you. 

And  now  I  sing,  to  the  banjo  ring, 
In  tune  by  memory  led, 


And  hear  a  sound  like  whispers  round 
The  grave  of  the  Past,  long  dead; 

'Tis  a  whir  and  a  hum, 

And  a  doleful  thrum, 
But  music  my  heart  can  feel — 

I  hear  as  before, 

In  days  of  yore, 
Black  mammy's  spinning  wheel. 

It  brings  me  joy,  as  when  a  boy 

I  sat  in  her  cabin  door, 
And  heard  her  sing  to  the  spindle's  ring, 
As  she  paced  the  "puncheon"  floor; 

From  the  dawn  to  the  gloam, 

In  the  old  South  home, 
A  mammy  true,  black  and  leal, 

She  trudged  to  and  fro, 

In  the  long  ago. 
And  wrought  at  her  spinning  wheel. 

How  blest  the  days,  how  sweet  the  ways, 

That  Kate  and  I  saw  then — 
My  sister  Kate,  whom  God  and  fate, 

Have  taken  to  His  Aidenn. 
Now  'neath  the  orange  trees, 


Kissed  by  each  balmy  breeze, 
That  thro'  magnolias  steal, 

Under  the  bloom 

Lies  Katie's  tomb, 
And  still's  the  spinning  wheel. 


GYPSY." 


My  Sister  Aran. 

IS  true  !     I'm  gray,  and  bald,  and  old — 
Not  even  blest  with  a  little  gold— 
But  that  sweet  girl,  she  loves  me  well, 
And  why,  you  never  could,  ever  tell. 

Ah,  she  is  bright,  and  good,  and  fair, 
And  sunlight  lives  in  her  eyes  and  hair; 
Yet  both  are  black  as  noon  of  night — 
Her  lips  would  tempt  an  anchorite. 


And  I  love  her,  with  all  my  soul— 
No  pitiful  love,  like  a  miser's  dole- 
My  heart  goes  out  to  her  as  free 
As  a  home-bound  ship  on  a  homeward  sea. 

And  mine  is  a  heart  that's  good  and  strong; 

Old  as  it  is  it  carries  no  wrong; 

It  has  no  crime  nor  sorrow  to  bear; 

'Tis  clear  as  the  pure,  intrenchant  air. 

Living  are  those  who'll  laugh  at  this; 
But  what  care  I  for  a  serpent's  hiss  ? 
When  snakes  crawl  near  enough  to  feel, 
I  quietly  grind  them  under  my  heel 


But  let  me  now  the  riddle  unfold, 
\Vhy  she  loves  me,  so  gray  and  old, 
And  she  so  young,  and  bright,  and  fair, 
With  sunlight  in  her  eyes  and  hair. 

I  came,  a  veteran  soldier,  back 
From  war  and  desolation's  track, 
And,  with  my  sword,  I  brought  along 
My  minstrel  harp,  and  soul  and  song. 

She  hung  my  sword  in  the  old  roof-tree, 
And  came  and  sat  upon  my  knee; 
"You  are  a  poet,"  she  said.  "  I  know, 
And  that  is  why  I  love  you  so." 

I  am  a  man,  and  she  a  child, 
And  with  my  story  she's  beguiled, 
For  I'm  a  doting  old  brother,  you  see, 
And  she's  a  sister  sweet  to  me. 


A    LITTLE   SHOE. 


II AR  ain't  much  poetry,  that's  a  fact, 

In  a  pa'r  of  worn  out  shoes, 
But  I've  seen  truck  agoin',  that  lacked 
As  much  of  soul,  or  the  muse. 

I've  got  a  shoe,  'bout's  big's  my  thumb, 

All  gone  at  the  heel  and  toe, 
That  makes  my  poor  old  heartstrings  thrum 

To  the  tune  of  long  ago. 

It's  the  shoe  of  a  little  baby  boy, 

Who  was  two  or  three  worlds  to  me. 

He  come  and  went,  and  took  all  the  joy 
That  ever  I  reckon  to  see. 

The  mother  that  bore  him  went  along, 

And  it  broke  my  heart  in  two; 
Sometimes  I  hear  her  lullaby  song 

When  I'm  holding  that  tiny  shoe. 


And  I  hear  the  patter  of  wee.  small  feet, 
That  fitted  it  when  it  was  new, 

i 

But  all  that's  left  is  the  memory  sweet, 
And  the  little  worn  out  shoe. 

Thar  ain't  no  poetry,  much,  in  this, 
But  I  think  I've  got  the  clue 

To  a  road  that  leads  to  a  mite  of  bliss, 
If  I  follow  this  baby  shoe. 


'VE  got  a  new  tile,  of  the  latest 

spring  style; 
It's  glossy,  i'ts  sleek,  and  all 

that; 
It   is  ever   so    swell,   and    goes 

excellent  well 
With    my    better    half's    new 

Easter  hat. 
But  comfort  and  ease,  I'll  take, 

if  you  please, 
Beneath  my  own  fig-tree  and  vine, 
And  worry  along  with  my  pipe  and  a  song, 

And  that 

slouchy  old 

felt  of  mine. 

That  new  spring  tile,  of  elegant  style, 

Is  hard,  and  as  heavy  as  lead;  [crown, 

It  weightens    me    down,    and    like    the    king's 
Uneasiness  brings  to  the  head. 

It  makes  a  demand  for  a  glove  on  my  hand 
With  dress  of  the  mode,  and  quite  fine, 

A  dignified  air  and  a  quantum  of  care 

Unknown 

to  that  slouch 

hat  of  mine. 


There's  trouble  enough,  and  the  road  is  full  rough, 

The  easiest  way  we  may  go 
The  journey  of  life,  its  care  and  its  strife, 

Its  trials,  and  burdens,  and  woe. 
So,  just  if  you  please,  I'll  gather  what  ease 

May  lie  in  a  goblet  of  wine, 
The  pipe  and  the  song,  that  fairly  belong, 
With  that 

slouchy  old 

felt  of  mine. 


JOSEPH  ETA. 

To  E.  L.  Powell. 

REAT  black  eyes,  with  look  so  tender, 

That  they  seem,  almost  to  weep; 
Hand  that's  taper,  brown  and  slender, 

Shades  them  peering  up  the  steep, 
From  the  "dobey"  on  the  mesa, 
Where  the  sun  forever  shines, 
'Long  the  foothill,  where  the  gazer, 
Sees  amid  the  tangled  vines 

And  the  crooked  manzanita, 
Su  Chiquita! 
La  bonita. 

There's  a  little  Mexic  maiden, 

Golden-haired  and  eyes  of  blue, 
With  the  summer  flowers  laden 
Climbing  down  from  where  they  grew. 
Dusky-haired  and  dark-eyed  mother — 

Though  mayhap  the  question's  bold — 
Whence  those  eyes  of  some  one  other, 
Whence  the  shining  locks  of  gold? 
Tell  me  handsome  Josepheta, 
Of  Chiquita, 
La  bonita. 

Ah!    I  see  yon  caballero, 

Riding  thither  down  the  trail — 


Now  he  lifts  his  broad  sombrero, 
Shouts  the  Saxon's  hearty  hail, 
And  the  flax-haired  caballero 
Has  Chiquita's  eyes  of  blue, 
Shaded  by  his  slouch  sombrero — 
Pretty  answer  that  is,  too, 

For  the  handsome  Josepheta, 
And  Chiquita, 
La  bonita. 


THE   GOVERNOR'S   VIOLIN. 


ID  the  silken,  perfumed  elegance, 

Within  a  stately  house, 
I've  heard  its  rich  tones  ringing 

Thro'  the  vvilderings  of  Strauss, 
And  I've  heard  the  sigh  of  gentle  ones 

Who  listened  while  it  bore 
To  charmed  hearts,  the  sweetness 

Of  the  touching  "Trovatore." 

I've  heard  it  in  the  evening, 

Within  a  quiet  home, 
Sing  "Swanee  River"  till  the  bees 

Came  humming  round  the  comb; 
'Mid  the  phases  of  the  wassail 
And  the  joys  of  festal  cheer, 
I've  heard  it  change  from  gay  to  grave, 
From  lively  to  severe. 

In  tender  tones  of  pleading; 

In  sighs  of  spent  delight; 
In  greetings  to  the  morning 

And  in  good-byes  to  the  night; 
In  storms  upon  the  ocean 

And  in  the  songs  of  birds, 
I've  heard  its  voice,  like  a  living  thing, 

In  sweetest  human  .words. 


I've  heard  it  give,  stentorian, 

Command  in  battle's  blare, 
And  heard  it  whisper,  soft  and  low, 

Like  angels  in  the  air. 
'Mong  brawny  men,  in  mining  camps, 

I've  seen  it  hush  a  brawl, 
Till  clenched  hands  are  open  palms 

That  in  each  other  fall. 

I've  seen  it  gather  little  ones 

About  the  player's  knee, 
As  did  the  babes  of  olden  time 

'Round  Him  of  Galilee. 
And  to  it  oft  I've  listened, 

Till  all  the  world  was  kin, 
While  lovingly  its  master  played 

The  Governor's  violin. 


BARBARIC    INDIGNATION. 


To  William  Wilson  Knott. 

A  GRIM  barbaric  warrior  heard, 

How  Christ  was  crucified; 
How  meek  and  uncomplainingly 

He  bent  his  head  and  died. 
He  heard, aghast, the  dreadful  tale, 

Then  seethed  with 
wrath  his  brain; 
"Had  I  been  there  with 

three-score  men, 
The    Christ   had    not 
been  slain." 


As    thus    he  spoke    he 

fiercely  grasped 
The    handle    of     his 

brand; 
In    knots    his     brawny 

muscles  stood 
And   he    austere    and 

grand. 
"Where  were  His  brave  defenders 

then?" 

The  chieftain  might  have  asked, 
Had  he  but  longer  in  the  light 
Of  Christian  knowledge  basked — 


"Where  then  the  zealous  champions 
Who  thousands  since  have  slain — 

The  'unbelievers'  slaughtered 
By  Inquisitors  in  Spain, 
And  in  'Bloody  Mary's'  reign?" 

As  'twas  he  questioned,  eagerly: 

''Where  \vere  the  God-man's  friends — 
They  for  whose  immortal  souls 

He  bent  his  aims  and  ends? 
Stood  they  about  and  laised  no  hand 

To  stay  the  murd'rous  deed? 
W7here  were  their  love  and  fortitude 

In  this  high  time  of  need? 
And  where  the  healed  in  sight    and   limb, 

Who  sought  the  Nazarene, 
And  touched  His  garments  full  of  faith 

That  this  would  make  them  clean.'3" 


"We  arc  fighting  yet  His  holy  cause,' 

A  churchman  stoutly  said: 
"His  name  shall  be  our  Shibboleth, 

Till  all  His  foes  are  dead." 
And  yet  the  grim  barbarian 

Clutched  hard  his  sxvord  and  cried. 
"Had  I  been  there  with  three-score  men 

Christ  Jesus  had  not  died— 

He'd  not  been  crucified." 


SORRY   FOR  THE   LORD. 


'M  gittin   sorry  fur  you  Lawd, 

Indeed  an'  trufe,  I  am; 
De  niggah  wants  so  monst'ous  much, 

Cep'  Gilead  an'  de  ba'm. 
Dey  prays  fur  ev'rything  dey  needs, 

Dat  work  would  bring  'em  all, 
An'  wants  de  fruit  of  all  de  'arth, 

Jis'  like  befo'  de  fall. 


I  heard  one  niggah  prayin',  Lawd, 

His  very  level  bes', 
Fur  Christmas  time  de  whole  year  roun' 

An'  all  de  time  a  res'; 
He  axed  to  have  de  chicken  roos' 

Down  on  de  lowes'  limb, 
An'  turkeys  jes'  on  top  de  fence, 
In  easy  reach  er  him. 


Come  stately  steppin',  oh,  good  Lawd, 

'Pon  yo'  lily-white  steed, 
An'  smash  dem  sassy  niggahs  down, 

An'  bruise  de  sarpint's  seed. 
Dey  howls  at  you  de  livelong  night 

An'  robs  you  of  yo'  sleep, 
'Kase  dey's  too  lazy  fur  to  sow, 

An'  got  no  crap  to  reap. 


THE   SWEETEST   SONG. 


OW  sing  once  more,  my  dear  old  harp, 

And  sing  the  sweetest  song, 
That  ever  from  thy  chorded  strings 
Burst  fresh,  and  free,  and  strong. 

Sing  of  the  dark-brown  eyes  and  hair, 
That  with  my  love  belong; 

Sing  of  the  heart  she  gives  to  me, 
Ariel  sing  your  sweetest  song. 


In  other  days — my  boyhood  days — 

I've  tuned  thy  twanging  strings 
To  sing  of  other — fancied — loves; 
Those  loves  have  taken  wings. 

My  good  old  heart,  my  strong  old  heart 

Has  turned  to  better  things; 
Its  richest,  purest  love,  old  harp, 

To  this  love  closer  clings. 

I  love  her  for  the  angel  soul 

That  moves  her  every  thought; 
I  love  her  for  the  generous  heart 

That  in  her  soul  is  caught; 

I  love  her  for  the  beauties  bright, 

That  with  her  life  belong; 
So  sing  of  these,  my  dear  old  harp, 

And  sing  your  sweetest  song. 


CASTELAR. 


To  L.  P.  Coffin. 


bitter  to  love  her  thus,    he 

said; 
Tis   bitter  that    she    loves 

me. 
Twere   better   to    go  where 

death  hath  led, 
Where    war     is     cruel     and 

blood  is  shed- 
Far   better     than  thus    to 
be. 

She  hath  a  lord  of  her  own- 
is  wed — 

Forsooth  a  man  of  low  de 
gree, 
But   many  a  league    of  land 

outspread, 

He  holds  by  a  fief,  inherited, 
And  a  vassal  tenantry. 


I  have  a  fief;  'tis  in  my  hand, 

A  blade  that  did  never  rust, 
And  Fast  and  West,  in  every  land, 
I  held  my  own  with  the  trusty  brand, 
But  now  it  must  sheathe  in  dust. 


Why  do  I  linger  about  her  gates? 

I  seldom   see  her,  alas! 
And  who  but  a  laggard  mopes  and  waits 
By  the  window  the  wan  moon  tessellates 

To  see  her  shadow  pass? 

The  gold  of  her  hair  has  tangled  me, 

Yet  I  have  never  loved  gold. 
The  white  of  her  throat,  and  the  ivory 
Of  her  bosom,  chained  me  in  ecstacy 

When  her  lips  the  secret  told. 

I  envy  the  lily  upon  her  breast. 

The  rose  in  her  shining  hair; 
I  chide  the  sun  who  lags  in  the  west; 
I  wait  in  the  garden  she  loves  the  best — 

She  promised  to  meet  me  there. 

I  held  her  close  in  my  arms  last  night; 

Oh,  the  pain  of  stolen  bliss! 

She    checked    me    with   grief  that  was  half  delight, 
The  loves  that  were  wrong,  the  hearts  that  were  right, 

Clung  close  in  that  pleading  kiss. 

Her  lord  is  brawny  and  strong'of  arm, 

But  comely  and  kind,  men  say; 
The  brute  that  is  in  him  may  take  alarm, 
When  he  knows  her  heart  with  its  depth  of  calm 

Has  passed  forever  away. 


Why  tarries  she  yet?     Tis  very  late, 

And  the  night-bird  bodeth  ill; 
But  hist!  I  hear  by  the  oaken  stair, 
Loud  angry  words — a  cry  of  despair, 

Ah,  God!     Now  all  is  still. 

I  knew  no  bars,  I  knew  no  bolts, 

I  knew  no  doors  of  oak, 
I  traversed  the  stairs  and  sounding  floors; 
The  chambers  were  closed — the  great  carved  doors 

Fell  to  a  thunder-stroke. 

Oh  rose!  Oh  lily!  Oh  poor  white  dove; 

And  the  blood-stain  on  her  breast, 
And  the  parting  lips  still  quivering- 
Great  God,  I  heard  rude  laughter  ring, 

By  the  cross,  1  stand  confessed. 

By  the  rood,  I  saw  his  brutal  bulk 

Stand  midway  in  the  door, 
'Twas  hard  to  slay  so  strong  a  man, 
But  I  had  slain  the  Saracen, 

And  her  blood  cried  from  the  floor. 

Little  may  vulgar  strength  avail 

'Gainst  arm  that's  nerved  with  steel; 

1  le  lies  at  the  foot  of  a  carven  knight — 
And  I— -I  kissed  her  lips  "Good  night." 
Good  night!  All  peace,  all  rest  go  hence; 
Good  night  to  all  but  penitence. 


ITA    EST. 


WALKED  by  the  sea  and  picked  up  2  shell, 

Thrown  out  on  the  scalloped  shore, 
And  I  listened  to  hear  what  it  could  tell — 

It  crooned  the  city's  dull  roar. 
I  threw  it  far  back,  in  the   foaming  :;ea; 

Its  song  was  a  dreary  drone; 
A  story  of  sorrow  and  pain,  to  me — 

The  memory  ot  a  moan. 

Some  flowers  that  grew  by  the  homeward  way, 

I  picked  as  I  strolled  along; 
They  drooped  and  died  with  the  waning  clay, 

And  end  of  a  vesper  song. 
'Tis  easy  to  keep  a  glittering  sin — 

They  last  until  cast  aside; 
But  fair,  sweet  prizes,  we  glorify  in, 

We've  gathered,  and  they  have  died. 


TACOMA. 


AIR  princess  of  the  West,  and  coming  queen, 
About  thy  throne  of  hills  the  silver  sheen 

Of  fairest  day  is  flung. 
Yon  snow-crowned  king,  thy  regal  guardian 

stands: 

His  white-haired  priests,  uplifting  holy  hands, 
Thy  christened  name  have  sung, 
"  Tacoma!  " 


His  name  is  thine,  and  thou  shalt  wear  it  well, 
So  long  as  truth  shall  live,  and  song  shall  tell 

Thy  beauty  and  thy  grace; 
And  from  his  hand,  as  master  at  a  feast, 
He'll  give  thee  glowing  days,  from  out  the  East, 

To  light  thy  lovely  face, 
Tacoma. 

Amid  thy  woods,  and  o'er  thy  sail-flecked  seas, 
As  thou  art  kissed  by  many  art  od'rous  breeze, 

Thou  standest,  regal  one, 
The  pride  of  every  loving  soul  that  knows 
Thy  might  and  worth,  and  with  it  warmly  glows 

High  pride  of  Washington, 
Tacoma. 


HIS    ANGEL   SLEPT. 

AIR  of  face  and  debonair; 

Unbound  sheaves  of  shining  hair; 
Open  throated,  winning  eyes. 
Lives  'neath  never-clouding  skies: 
Soul   that's  ever  moulding  art; 
True  and  brave,  with  tender  heart; 
Takes  the  great  world  as  it  get-; 
Loves  the  pansy  and  the  rose; 

Finds  in  every  flower  honey; 

Hates  the  miser  and  his  money. 


High  of  mind  and  clanly  proud; 
Shrinks  he  from  the  rabble  croud; 
Shuns  the  herd  arid  loves  his  friends; 
Scorns  the  truckling  soul  that  bends; 
Holds  the  sparkling  goblet  high, 
Lowers  it  and  drains  it  dry; 
Guardian  angel  of  the  boy 
Watch  with  him  through  every  joy; 

Ward  off  dangers  that  environ; 

Let  thy  wand  be  rod  of  iron. 

'Mid  the  music  and  the  bloom, 
Soft  caresses  and  perfume. 
Where  the  fountains  plash  and  play, 
Where,  though  light,  'tis  never  day, 
For  the  day  is  his  in  sleep, 


Dreaming  dreams  while  reapers  reap, 

Poet-born,  with  fancy  bright, 

Plays  and  works  he  in  the  night; 
With  no  passion  mezzo-graded, 
All  sun-bright  or  somber-shaded. 

Cold  the  winter  wind   now  blows, 

Lying  deep  the  winter  snows; 

Hani  and  frozen  is  the  way 

Where  he's  wandering  astray, 

And  the  morning  drives  the  dark 

From  the  spot  where,  lying  stark, 

lie-  who  had  been  guarded  well, 

At  the  hand  of  demons  fell- 
Through  the  shadows  came  the}'  creeping1; 
Worn,  his  angel  guard  was  sleeping. 


COME,   DREAMS. 


H  leagues!  Oh  leagues  of  mountain  waste 
That  lie  between  my  love  and  me! 

Come,  Sleep,  with  swift  and  blessed  haste, 
And  span  the  rugged  sea; 

Come,  Dreams!   Oh,  Dreams!  I  long  for  thee 

To  bring  my  idol  back  to  me. 

'Tis  true,  my  darling  baby  love — 

My  heait,  my  treasure  and  my  soul  — 
The  loving  Father,  up  above, 
In  sleep  doth  lead  us  to  the  goal 
Where,  dreaming,  I'm  caressing  thee, 
And  dreaming  thou  art  kissing  me. 

Through  all  the  dreary,  weary  day, 

In  all  my  waking  hours, 
I  sigh  along  the  heavy  way 

That  lies  between  this  love  of  ours; 
But  we  can  meet  in  dream-land  bowers 
And  gather  there  love's  sweetest  flowers. 


t«    ' 


', 

.   • 


JIM    MARL1NSP1KE. 


1M  MARLINSPIKF  was  a  castaway, 

On  a  faa'-off  island  shore; 
He  floated  there  on  a  banjo  box, 

And  a  shirt  was  all  he  wore-- 
If  you  should  bar  a  startled  look, 

And  a  pain  that  then  was  his, 
For  too  much  damp  had  left  with  Jim, 

A  touch  ol  the  rheumatiz. 

But  Jim  was  a  man  of  "Tapley"  stripe, 
And  when  things  worried  him, 

He  always  looked  at  the  pleasant  side, 
For  that  was  the  way  with  Jim, 


And  so  it  gave  him  joy,  indeed, 

When  on  that  lonely  shore, 
lie  found  his  banjo  safe  in  box — 

.And  he  asked  for  nothing  more. 

Some  would'er  pined  for  a  bite  to  eat, 

Or  a  suit  of  hand-me-downs, 
But  Jim  just  played  his  old  banjo, 

And  laughed  at  Fortune's  frowns. 
The  trade-winds  played  at  hide-and-seek 

With  the  skirt  of  Jim's  brief  shirt. 
But  he  sat  on  a  rock  and  played  banjo, 

And  he  played  it  too,  right  peart. 


•*  i  * 


..  •--?<"  ~Jwi 


The  pine  trees  there  were  pine  enough 

For  such  a  man  as  him; 
Not  a  soul  on  land,  nor  one  on  sea, 

Was  a  bothering  much  of  Jim. 
The  most  contented  man  on  earth, 

Or,  eke  upon  the  sea, 
Was  that  same  jack-tar,  Marlinspike. 

With  his  banjo  on  his  knee. 
Old  Crusoe  pined  for  lots  of  things 

When  in  that  self-same  fix; 
He  wanted  friendship,  home,  and  such, 

To  Jim  all  these  were  "nix." 
He'd  never  known  where  he  was  born, 

And  what's  more,  didn't  care, 
And  friendship  lie  had  seemed  to  think 

Was  a  tiling  that  didn't  wear. 


Therefore  he  stayed  and  gaily  played 

To  whales  and  little  fish; 
And  old  Saint  Tony  never  had 

A  crowd  more  to  his  wish. 
At  last  one  day,  his  G  string  broke, 

And  with  that  came  a  pain 
That  broke  his  heart,  for  now  he  thought, 

He'd  never  play  again. 

So  then  he  pined,  from  day  to  day, 

A  sorely  troubled  soul; 
I  low  glad  he'd  given  his  very  last  shirt 

To  make  the  G  string  whole. 
He  pined  for  a  place  where  he  could  buy 

Another  such  a  string; 
But  hope  was  lost  and  Jim  sat  down 

His  death  song  for  to  sing. 

A  tender-hearted  monster  heard 

Poor  Marlinspike's  sad  wail  — 
The  great  big  mammal-fish  that's  called 

The  true  and  righteous  whale; 
And  straight  away  his  whaleship  went, 

Right  clown  to  Whatcom  fiats, 
And  swallowed  there  a  gunny-sack, 

Cramfull  of  all  size  cats. 


The  G  cat  and  the  B  cat  too, 

Likewise  the  slender  K, 
And  wire  to  make  the  big  A  strings, 

A  cargo  full,  took  he, 
And  then  he  hied  him  fast  away, 

To  Jim's  lone  island  shore, 
And  threw  his  string-truck   on  the   beach 

And  laughed  till  he  was  sore. 


Now  when  Jim  Marlinspike  beheld 

What  this  good  whale  had  done 
lie  knew  that  'mong  the  mammal  sort 

A  real  friend  he'd  won. 
Me  wiped  his  red  and  weeping  eyes, 

And  timed  his  shell  once  more, 
And  Jim's  playing  yet,  I  think, 

Upon  that  island  shore. 


SAXDY  M'CAXX. 

To  S   O.  Hrooks. 

O  say  that  the  hair  of  young  Sandy  McCann 
\Yas  auburn,  \vas  putting  it  fine,  for  the  man 
J  lad  a  head  that  just  blazed,  like  the  bird  that  we  see 
A  driving  his  bill  in  the  cotton-wood  tree. 
But  Sandy  delighted  to  stray  from  his  home 
And  wander  about  'ncath  the  blue,  ether  dome. 

'Twas  thus  it  once  happened,  when  near  his  life's 

prime, 

-That  Sand)r  was  gone  such  a  very  long  time— 
A  decade  or  more — that  his  business  and  kin 

Much  needed  to  know  of  the  parts  he  was  in. 

And  thus  the  great  search  was  so  ably  begun 

To  find  the  locale  of  the  wandering  one. 

His  starting  was  traced  to  a  place  where  a  man, 
Had  met  on  the  Mexican  border  McCann, 
And  a  girl  \\ith  red  hair,  about  sixteen  or  so, 
Said  her  father  was  Sandy,  and   ten  years  ago, 
As  she  had  oft  heard,  from  her  mother's  own  mouth, 
1  lad  shouldered  his  traps  and  had  gone  further  south. 

So  trav'ling  along,  through  the  land  of  the  sun, 
Where   people  were  gcn'rally  black-haired  and   dun, 
One  day  they  brought  up,  with  a  well-founded  joy, 
At  a  ranch  where  they  saw  a  bright,  red-headed   boy, 
Whose   name  was   McCann,  but   his    father,  he  said, 
Left  six  years  before  and  the}'  thought  he  was  dead. 


Undaunted,  the   searchers   forwent  needed  rest 
And  pushed  further  south,  with  their  clue  and  their 

quest, 

Till  worn  out  and  hungry,  one  blazing  hot  day, 
Far  down  in  Tabasco  on  Campeachy  Bay, 
They  ran  into  cover  a  red-headed  child 
Unkempt  and  disheveled,  and  very  near  wild. 

But  Sandy,  the  papa,  had  traveled  some  more, 

So  footsore  and  weary  they  turned  from  the  shore, 

Back  over  the  mountains  and  on  to  the  plain, 

In  hope  to  recover  the  trail  once  again, 

And   fortune  soon  blest,  with  its  fullness,  their  zeal, 

And  turned  threatened  woe  to  the  welcomcst  weal. 

On  a  rough, wooden  bench,  by  a  "dobey's"  deep  door, 

One  eve,  at  the  gloam,  they  saw  Sand}'  once  more. 

lie  trotted  a  red-headed  babe  on  his  knee. 

And  sang  an  old  song,  with  great  gusto  and  glee, 

So  this  is  the  story,  about  as  it  ran. 

Of  the  fiery  trail  of  one  Sandy  McCann. 


THE   GIRLS    OF   GOXIIOSE. 


WITH  APOLOGIES    TO    MR.  RUDVARU    KIPLING. 

OMK,  SWFKT  HOME,"   is   a   charming  old   song 
And    dearest  ot"  memories    'round  it  will    throng, 
But  sometime  to  glide  through  the  gate  that's  ajar 
And  "  roam  the  wide  world,"  mid  its  wonders  afar, 
And  ramble  away,  to   the   ends  of    the  earth 
Will  lighten   a  sorrow   with    leaven  of  mirth; 
'Tis  thus  I  have  seen  the  sweet  vale  of  Cohone 
And  danced  with  the  maidens  of  Mahakadone. 

I  have  ridden  the  horses  of  Stepduldagree 
And  climbed  the  blue  hillsides  of    Bezdarafee 
And  chased  the  gray  gatlinc.and  stalked  the  gelang, 

From  Odibus  river  to  Lake  Spanafang; 

I've  gathered  the  flowers  that   grew   in  the  snow, 

High  up  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Daracrow, 

And  bathed  with  the  mermaids   of    Yznaga  Sea, 

And  eaten  the  fruit  of  the  Santicoc  tree. 

But  that,  most  ecstatic,  quintessence  of  blisses, 
Is  honey  distilled  from  the  nectar  of  kisses 
That  lie  on  the  lips  of  the  girls    of      Gonhose, 
Whose  dress  is  th-j  mist  and  whose  breath  is  the  rose. 
The  music  they  bring  from  the  soft  tamberlee 
Is  sweeter  than  songs  of  the  famed  Oberjce, 
And,  under  the  sun,  are  no  jewels  so  rare 
As  the  doden  thev  wear  in  their  radiant  hair. 


I've  sipped  the  rich  wines  or  the  far  Folitod 
'Mid  odorous  zephyrs  of  fair  Toltifod, 
And  lounged  on  the  waves  of  the  wrinkled  Zandee 
'Xeath  sails  from  the  looms  of  old  Caberdecree, 
Whose  woof  and  whose  web     arc  the  prismatic  silks 
That  are  spun  by  the  hoojas  of  Gammerdatilks; 
I've  eaten  the  lotus  leaf,  smoked  the  Krulome 
And  forgotten  the  tune  of  thesonsrof  "  Sweet  Home." 


OLD   MART   AN'    MK, 


OLD    MART. 


To  Col.  George  C  Gill. 

Hit's  been  so  monstrous  long  ago  it  seems 

jes  like  a  dream, 
Sence    \ve    was    only    chunks    er    boys  —  a 

rough-an'-tumble  team  - 
That  useter    dam  the    spring  house  branch 

an'  set  up  flutter  wheels, 
An'  work    so  dead    in  arnest  that  we    often 

missed  our  meals, 
An'  sometimes  fit  en  quarreled  till  we  war 

a  sight  to  see, 

An'  frequent  we  got  licked  for  that, 
Old  Mart  an'  me. 


Time  come  we  had  to  go  to  school  —  some  furder  en  a  mile  — 
But  what  we  larnt,  until  this  day,  jis  sorter  makes  me  smile; 
:T\vas  little  mo'  than  nuthin',  en  we  got  it,  inch  by  inch. 
While  the  teacher  lammed  it  to  us,  till  we  had  the  mortal  cinch 
On  everything  the  old  man  knowed,  plum  to  the  rule  of  three, 
But  frequent  we  got  licked  for  that, 
Old  Mart  an'  me. 

We  was  raised  on  farms  adjinin'  with  plenty  all  aroun', 
But  still  we'd  skip  off,  atter  dark,  an'  pole  away  to  town. 
Three  mile,  up  hill,  el  'twar  a  foot,  an'  jine  the  boys  up  there, 


To  eat  sardines,  and  smoke  seegyars,  an'  have  a  sort  of  "tare," 
Or  rob  a  neighbor's  million  patch  —  for  deviltry,  you  see 
But  frequent  we  got  licked  for  that, 
Old  Mart  an'  me. 

At  spellin'  bees  and  singin   school,  thar's  \vhar  \ve  useter  shine; 
We  couldn't  spell  a  little  bit,  ner  sing  so  mighty  fine, 
But  when  it  come  to  courtin'  gals  an'  seein'  of  'em  home, 
Why  we  was  thar,  an'  you  hear  me,  'twas  honey  in  the  comb, 
Then  Widder  Kane  got  married,  an'  we  raised  a  shivaree  — 
But  didn't  we  get  licked  for  that, 
Old  Mart  and  me! 

When  finally  the  war  broke  loose,  an*  Mart  an'  me  went  in, 
One  time  we  struck  a  scrimmage  that  was  livelier  en  sin; 
We  had  it.  back  an'  forrards,  twict,  acrost  a  cotton  patch — 
You  never  see'd,  in  all  yo'  life,  a  hotter  shootin  match- 
I  got  a  plug  clean  throo  my  leg,  an'  him  one  in  the  knee, 
So,  we  got  sorter  licked  at  that, 
Old  Mart  and  me. 

We've  had  some  ups  and  down  in  life,  and  growin'  kinder  old, 
With  hearts  as  warm  as  ever,  an'  they  never  will  get  cold. 
So  fur  as    him    an'  me's  consarned;     not    even 

over  thar, 
When    all    are   called    to   answer     at   the    final 

jedgement  bar, 
For  friendship's   close  to  holiness,  and  blamed 

ef  I  can  see, 

How  we'll  git  licked  a  bit  for  that. 

Old  Mart  an'  me.  AN,  M 


JK  SUIS    PRET. 

F   'twere  a  sin  to  love  you,  madly, 

And  I  were1  white  as  any  angel  is 
I'd  break  the  decalogue,  most  gladly- 
From  end  to  end — then  go  and  sizz. 


LOVE'S  JUBILEE. 


Oh!  when  you  go  away,  sweetheart. 

What  shall  I  do? 
'Twill  be  a  dreary  day,  sweetheart, 

For  I  love  you. 

But  in  my  life  that  love  I'll  fold, 
And  in  my  soul  your  image  hold, 
And  keep  it  true, 
My  sweet  for  you. 

Oh!    when  you  come  again,  sweetheart, 

What  joy  'twill  be! 
Like  vesper's  soft  "Amen,"  sweetheart, 

For  you  and  me. 

Then  we'll  forget  the  dreary  day, 
When,  dear  sweetheart,  you  went  away, 

And  that  will  IK- 

Love's  jubilee. 


RECOMPENSE. 


HE  \vhistle  gave  its  signal  shriek; 
/I         The  bell  in  warning  measure  rang; 
The  iron  links  complained,  and  eke 

The  heavy  wheels  their  rail  beats  sang. 


The  pond'rous  train  moved  slowly  on, 

Till,  reaching  yon  broad  stretch  of  plain, 
It  flew  toward  the  east,  and  gone, 
My  love  left  me,  in  tears  again. 

I  cursed  the  train  that  bore  away 

The  darling,  all  I  love,  from  me — 
But  list!    I  bless  the  same  to-day, 

For  that  will  take  me,  sweet  to  thee . 


POET   SCOUT. 


IIo\v  arc  you,  grand  old  friend  of  mine?    I'm 

glad  you've  come  again, 
And  brought  your  broad  sombrero  and  your 

Western  poet-pen; 
Come,  "sit  theedoon,"  old  partner,  and  we'll 

\veave  a  little  rhime, 
That's    somewhat     reminiscent     of    another 

scene  and  time. 


I'm  thinking  now,  old  friend  of  mine,  when  on  Wyoming's  plains 
We  met,  where  friendship  first  began  to  forge  the  golden  chains 
That  ever  since  have  linked  us  two,  and  made  us  only  one, 
In  trial  or  in  jollity,  in  danger,  fight  or  fun. 

You  fought  the  red-skin  rascals,  from  Big  Horn  to  the  Grande, 
And  you've  helped  to  build  and  populate  the  shining  Western 

land; 
You've  made  a  fame,  old  friend  of  mine,  with  knightly  shield  and 

lance, 
That  in  the  story  of  the  West  will  live  beyond  romance. 

And  so  I'm  glad  to  see  you  here,  so  gray  and  strong  and  tall, 
Beneath  your  big  sombrero  with  your  buckskin,  hair  ami  all, 
And  we'll  drink  in  sparkling  water,  from  the  health  that  in  it  lies, 
A  health  to  all  the  Western  land,  its  rivers,  hills  and  skies. 


And  we'll  pray  for  God's  good  blessings  on  all  that  wide  domain, 

From  dark  Missouri's  murky  tide  to  Colorado's  plain, 

And  o'er   the    Rockies    to    the    sea,    where    morning's    sunshine 

streams 
Among  the  peaks  and  far  across  to  where  Tacoma  gleams. 


JULEY   ANN. 


OME  sa>'  Ise  cross  an'  cranky  too, 

An'  mebbe  dat  I  am, 
Ise  had  enough  to  worry  thoo 
To  aggervate  a  lamb. 

Ise  had  nine  chillun  in  my  day, 

An'  nary  one  is  lef; 
Dey  all  was  tuck  an'  kyard   away, 

An'  I'm  here  by  mysef. 

Ole  master  died  when  I  wuz  grown, 

An'  stated  in  his  will, 
Dat  I  mus'  be  Miss  Susie's  own— 

Me  an'  de  water-mill. 


My  chillun,  dey  wuz  lotted  out— 
An',  mind  you,  'fo' dey's  bawn, 

Fur  I  wuz  healthy,  strong  and  stout, 
An*  sho'  as  las'  year's  cawn. 

De  fus*  wuz  Tom,  dey  tuck  him  when 

He  jis'  wuz  fo'  year  old. 
An'  foll'rin'  him  wuz  little  Ben, 

An'  den  my  Jane  wuz  sold, 

An'  Lu  an'  Bob  and  Tip  an'  Jim— 
An'  Sam,  my  crippled  son, 

Dey  even  niosied  off  wid  him, 
An'  lef  me  nary  one. 


Dem  chillun's  scattered  cver'whar, 

An'  dunno  who  dey  is, 
But  dey  will  know  me  ovah  dar 

When  jedgment's  sun  is  riz.' 

I  may  'pear  monst'ous  cross  an'  ill, 
But  Heaven  knows  I  b'ar 

No  spite,  er  hate,  er  'vengeful  will 
To  block  my  way  up  dar. 


A    MEMORY   AND  A  TEAR. 


IS  noon  of  night,  and  from  a  long,  lone  walk, 
I've  come  to  sit  me  down  and  meditate; 
To  croon  and  ponder,  musing  with  myself; 
To  mumble,  in  an  old  man's  piping  way. 

That  walk  had  been  a  hard  and  weary  one, 
Mad  I  been  'companied  by  other  thoughts 
Than  those  that  held  me  as  I  strolled  adown 
The  wintry  street — the  hushed  and  quiet  street, 
Save  for  the  restless  wind,  that  blowing  light, 
Listless  and  wanton,  thro'  the  bare-armed  trees, 
Made  music  fitting  to  my  reverie, 
So  deep,  and  reaching  to  the  past, 
That  being  once  again  a  boy,  my  limbs 
Forgot  the  years  they've  marched  along   beside 
Since  lusty  youth,  in  roseate  glow,  was  mine. 

In  all  the  years,  since  then,  I've  seen  the  world 
On  many  sides,  and  felt  its  jagged  points, 
As  rolling  in  swift  motion,  on   its  poles, 
It  grinds  the  face  of  those  who  do  not  wear 
Protecting  Fortune's  mask,  impierceable. 

I've  sat  within  the  shade  of  orange  groves, 

And  heard  in  low,  and  sweet   and  witching  strains, 

Some  far-off  music,  as  of  siren  songs, 

Weird-like,  from  wooded  shores  of  placid  lakes. 

Soft  o'er  the  listening  waters  steal  along. 


I've  borne  the  cold  of  Arctic   heights,  and  dragged, 
Half  famished,  o'er  the  sands  of  desert  plains, 
And  strove  in  solitude,  amid  the  wilds 
And  gloom  of  desolation  lost. 

I've  stood  upon  a  lonely  isle,  far  out 
Amid  the  sea,  and  yearning,  hopeful,  watched 
The  waste  to  catch  a  sight  of  saving  sail, 
And  day  by  day  saw,  but  with  growing  dread, 
The  crawling  canyons  of  the  deep  upheave, 

But  in  it  all  I've  had  a  holy,  sweet, 

And  blessed  memory  to  'bide  with  me — 

My  strong  young  manhood's  first  and  cherished  love. 

And  here's  a  great  and  faithful  tear;  one  lone, 
True,  tender  friend,  of  bright  and  bygone  years 
That,  some  decades  ago,  held  in  their  arms 
The  long-lost  love  that  I  beheld  to-night, 
So  far  away,  and  yet  so  vividly, 
Adown  life's  wonder-sided  vista  dim. 

Welcome  thou  art,  my  fellow  mourner,  here 
Beside  the  grave  of  buried  hopes;  welcome, 
Thou  sweet  and  pure  good  comforter  of  mine; 
And  mayst  thou  come  again  sometime,  tc  me. 
For  with  thee  comes  a  gentle,  tender  touch 
Of  pity  for  Myself,  that  softeneth, 


As  with  an  angel's  kind  and  soothing  ways, 
A  heart  that  hath  no  other  pain  so  sweet; 
A  heart  that  crying,  bleeding  with  it  all, 
Hugs  the  strong  anguish,  for  the  blessed  joy 
It  gave,  when  that  young  love  was  all  the  world, 
And  heaven, so  pure  it  was,  and  blissful. 


'TIS   MORE   THAN   ALL. 


O  sail !    no  sail!"    the  drifting  sailor  moans; 
"No    gold!     no    gold!"     the    toiling    miner 

groans; 

"No  fame!    no  name!"  the  weary  poet  sighs; 
"No   love!    no  love!"    the    heart   in    anguish 

cries. 

\Yith  all  we  get,  of  life,  or  fame,  or  gold, 
Existence  here  is  dark,  and  sad  and  cold, 
Without  that  light  and  blessing  from  above, 
One    sweet    and    trusting,    earnest    woman's 

love . 


RHODA    RAGLAND. 

To  I'd.  K.  rritciiard. 

WAS  the  mornin'  after  Shiloh, 

'Way  down  in  Tennessee, 
I  was  crusin'  'round  among  the  woods- 

A  friend  of  mine  and  me, 
When  I  seed  a  little  maiden 

Who  was  settin'  on  a  gun, 
That  was  busted  at  the  muzzle 

From  the  work  that  it  had  done 

She  had  throwed  a  bit  of  banner 

Acrost  her  golden  head, 
An'  when  I  ast  her  for  her  name, 
She  laughed  and  then  she  said, 
"My  name  is  Rhoda  Raglan', 
An'  I'm  vvaitin'  don't  you  see, 
For  pappy  dear  to  come  back  here, 
Wif  sompen  good  for  me." 

"We  was  livin'  in  the  cabin. 

In  the  clarin'  over  thar, 
Where  the  little  crick  went  rattlin'  by 

So  sparklin'  an'  so  clar, 
Hut  now  the  water's  muddy, 

An'  it's  bloody,  an'  the  banks 
Is  trompled,  an'  my  posies 

Is  jest  ruined  by  them  Yanks. 


"Our  cabin's  full  of  hurtcd  men, 

They  groaned  the  worstest  way — 
They  was  hurted  in  the  battle 

With  we'uns  yesterday, 
An'  ther  arms  an'  legs  a  bleedin', 

It  was  sich  cr  awful  sight, 
I  didn't  sleep  a  little  wink 

The  live-long  night, 

"So  I've  come,  good  Mr.  Yank, 

To  wait  for  pappy  here, 
My  mother  went  away  to  God, 

Last  winter  was  a  year. 
An'  we  was  livin'  all  alone 

In  the  cabin  over  thar, 
An'  why  he  don't  come  back  to  me 

I  think  it's  monstrous  quar." 

She  was  a  pooty  five-year-old, 

With  eyes  of  deepest  blue, 
An'  flossy  curls  an'  dimpled  cheeks, 

With  roses  in  'em  too. 
I  had  some  little  kids  at  home, 

Just  like  this  battle  waif, 
And  now  I  thanked  the  Lord  above 

That  they  were  well  and  safe. 


A  minnie  ball  had  pierced  my  arm, 

That  lay  now  in  a  sling; 
The  hurt  was  just  a  flesh-cut. 

An'  the  pain  a  smartish  sting, 
But  I  had  got  it  fairly 

An'  well  enough  I  knew, 
The  helpless  arm  would  take  me  home 

Within  a  day  or  two. 

So  I  plead  with  Rhoda  Raglan 

To  go  along  with  me, 
An'  maybe  we  would  find  her  pap 

Somewhar  in  Tennessee. 
An'  yit  I  know'd  her  father 

Was  away  beyond  life's  ills. 
So  I  tuck  her  to  Kentucky 

To  my  home  among  the  hills. 

We  raised  her  jest  as  good  an'  true, 

As  ef  she'd  been  our  own, 
Blood  of  mine  and  mother's, 

And  bone  of  our  bone. 
An'  she's  been  as  good  a  daughter 

As  any  of  the  three, 
An'  a  blessing  to  my  homestead, 

An'  to  mother  an'  to  me. 


She's  thirty-six,  or  thereabouts, 

I  can't  exactly  tell — 
But  she  married  in  the  neighborhood, 

And  married  monstrous  well; 
An'  she's  got  a  little  daughter, 

That  prattles  at  my  knee, 
An'  'minds  me  heaps  of  Rhoda 

Down  at  Shiloh — don't  you  see. 


DOWN    SOUTH. 


IS  summer  in  the  quiet  land  of  bloom, 

'Neath  skies  that  winter  never  knew; 
In  forests  deep  the  dusky  cypress  plume 

Nods  where  the  wild-vine  tendrils  clew 
Among  the  humbler  growth,  beneath  the  shade 

Of  centuried  and  hoary  oaks, 
And  where  the  rainbow-tinted  sunbeams  fad*1 

Under  the  long  and  trailing  cloaks 
Of  mosses,  bannered  to  the  lofty  boughs, 

That  weave  a  close  and  leafy  screen, 
For  nooks  where  fly-begoaded  cattle  browse, 

In  covers  cool,  of  grateful  green. 

II. 

Before  the  facade  of  the  deep,  dark  wood, 

The  fallow-fields  and  pastures  lie; 
And  ripening  harvests,  teeming,  rich  and  good, 

(iive  pleasing  promise  to  the  eye. 
Among  the  china  and  the  orange  trees, 

And  flowers  of  myriad  dye, 
And  jasmine  vines,  that  in  each  balmy  breeze 

Their  gay  and  golden  showers  fly, 
There  stands,  with  open  doors,  a  planter's  home. 

And  stillness  reigns  about  its  halls, 
Kxcept  the  sound  of  bees  around  the  comb, 

Or  ring-dove's  low  and  distant  calls. 


III. 

The  sunflower  droops  in  comely  grace 

Before  the  day-king's  fervid  rays — 
A  Clytie  fair,  \vho  bends  her  modest  face 

Beneath  Apollo's  ardent  gaze. 
A  shimmering  haze  is  in  the  air, 

The  mockingbird  his  riot  stills, 
The  river  glints   beneath  the  sun's  fierce  glare. 

And  mists  hang  o'er  the  far-off  hills. 
The  pigeons  croon  beneath  the  eaving-frieze, 

A  kitten  sleeps  in  "mammy's"  lap, 
And  in  a  hammock,  swung  betwixt  two  trees, 

"Old  marster"  takes  his  noon-tide  nap. 


ALEXANDER   SALVJXI. 

O\V  dreary,  dull,  would  be  this  seething  earth. 
Were  it  bereft  of  what  thine  art  doth  show, 
Of  rich  romance,  of  chivalry  and  mirth, 

',Mong  cavaliers  and  dailies  of  centuries  ago. 
Upon  the  glass  of  this  grand  art  of  thine 

Is  blown  a  breath  of  odors  from  old  Spain; 
The  perfumes  of  her  flowers,  fruit  and  wine, 
In  time  of  Honor's  prime  and  brightest  reign; 

Thou  bringest  back  the  fair  and  palmy  days 

Of  old  Grenada's  glory  and  her  fame, 
When  minstrels  sang  for  her  their  sweetest  lays 

And  caballeros  battled  in  her  name. 
And  in  thine  art,  as  gallant,  brave  and  gay, 

As  'twere  himself,  Don  Caesar  de  Ba/.an 
Conies  at  thy  call  to  charm  the  world  to-day, 

And  Dumas'  hero,  Philippe  D'Artagnan. 

High  in  thy  place,  Salvini,  'mid  the  stars 

That  gem  the  sky  of  thy  transcendent  art 
Thy  friends  are  pleased  to  sec  thce  shine,  like  Mars, 

With  ruddier  light,  thy  brilliance  to  impart, 
Thus  thou'lt  maintain  thy  sire's  radiant  fame, 

Kxalt  the  stage,  perpetuate  the  things 
That  save  tons  each  noble  deed  and  name 

That  story  tells  and  purest  poet  sings. 


WASHINGTON. 


URRAH  for  the  land  of  the  setting  sun! 
Hurrah  for  the  State  of  Washington! 
I  lurrah  for  the  men,  and  women,  and  all, 
Who  came  to  make  the  forests  fall! 
Hurrah  for  every  pioneer, 
Who  built  his  humble  cabin  here! 

Hurrah  for  the  day  when  first  begun 
The  march  from  toward  the  rising  sun, 
When  opening  'fore  the  axe  and  gun 
This  land  was  seen  and  doubly  won! 
Hurrah  for  the  men  with  brawn  and  brain 
Who  brought  fair  Progress  here  to  reign. 

Hurrah  for  mountain,  hill  and  plain! 
Hurrah  for  Irish,  Swede  and  Dane, 
For  English,  German,  French  and  Scot, 
And  every  man  who  casts  his  lot 
In  this  the  fairest  land  beside 
The  blue  Pacific's  swelling  tide! 

Hurrah  for  the  factories  and  schools! 
Hurrah  for  the  unity  that  rules — 
The  strength  of  enterprise  that  sends 
White-winged  ships  to  furthest  ends 
Of  all  the  busy,  bustling  world, 
Where'er  the  starry  flag's  unfurled! 


Hurrah  for  the  cities,  towns  and  fields 
And  all  their  homes,  and  hopes,  and  yields! 
Hurrah  for  the  pulpit,  press  and  pen- 
Beneath  the  rule  of  worthy  men — 
And  all  the  blessed  good  they've  done 
For  our  beloved  Washington! 

Hurrah  for  the  new  and  gleaming  gem! 
That  glints  within  the  banner's  hem- 
That  shines  upon  the  nation's  shield, 
And  in  the  flag's  pure  azure  field! 
Hurrah  for  the  land  of  the  setting  sun! 
Hurrah  for  the  State  of  Washington! 


MY  MOTHER'S  WEDDING  RING. 


To  Tom  J.  Nicholl. 

REMEMBER  when  that  circlet 

Was  a  heavy  golden  band, 
And  how  chastely  rich  it  shone  upon 

Her  plump  and  pretty  hand. 
As  boy  and  man,  I've  often  seen 

Pure  gems,  serene  and  rare, 
Gleam  brightly  on  the  same  dear  hand, 

So  tender,  true  and  fair. 

Those  jewels,  like  the  fleeting  joys 

That  come,  and  glow,  and  go, 
With  all  of  Fortune's  transcient  gifts, 
And  many  a  weighing  woe, 
Have  gone,  as  go  all  friends  and  days, 

With  every  hope  or  care: 
But  still  the  plain  gold  wedding  ring 
Shines  true  and  faithful  there. 

Those  dear,  old  hands  are  trembling  now 

Beneath  the  weight  of  years 
And  fragile,  thin,  has  grown  the  band 

That  linked  her  joys  and  tears, 
But  to  a  loving,  grateful  son 

There  is  no  blessed  thing, 
In  all  the  world  so  holy  as 

His  mother's  wedding  wing. 


CHRISMUS    IN    DE   OLE   TIME 


O\V  love,  come,  and  sing  with  me 
Within  this  home  beside  the  sea, 
And  sit  you  daughter  at  my  knee, 

To  help  the  homely  rhyme 
I'll  sing  of  clays  ere  you  were  born: 
Of  apples  and  the  gathered  corn; 
Of  darkies  and  the  dinner  horn, 
And  Chrismus  in  de  ole  time. 


We'll  tune  the  banjo  to  the  lay. 
And  make  the  music  light  and  gay, 
For  that,  my  loved  ones,  was  the  way 
Of  "we-all,"  in  the  prime 
And  happy  days  of  long  ago, 
\Vhen  Uncle  Jube  and  Mammy  Chlo' 
Made  jolly  times  like  honey  flow 
For  Chrismus  in  de  ole  time. 

More  love  shines  in  black    mammy's  face; 
More  joy  pervades  the  old  home  place; 
The  sun  streams  down   with   softer   grace; 

The  distant  church  bell's  chime 
I  las  sweeter  music  in  its  ring; 
More  merrily  the  darkies  sing, 
And  jollier  greetings  meetings  bring, 

In  Chrismus  in  de  ole  time. 


The  stillicide  of  honey-bees; 

The  grateful  scent  of  od'rous  trees; 

The  balmy,  perfume-laden  breeze 

Of  that  dear  sunny  clime, 
And  all  the  happiness  and  glee, 
Are  borne  on  memory's  wing  to  me, 
At  home  beside  this  western  sea, 

Of  Chrismus  in  de  ole  time. 


Christmas  Eve — the  old  plantation — 
See  the  quarters  blaze  with  light; 

Hear  the  fiddle,  bones  and  banjo; 
People  there  are  gay  to-night. 

Listen  to  the  leader  sing: 

"Jine  de  song,  you  sassy  niggahs." 
Hear  the  hearty  chorus  ring: 

"Dat's  all  right,  you  call  de  figgahs." 

Dar's  ole  Marster,  good  en  true; 

Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 
Ole  Mistiss,  she  is  dat  way,  too; 

Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 
Young  Mars  Jim  en  sweet  Miss  Sue; 

Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 
Lawd  bless  all  ole  Marster's  crew; 

Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 


Sing  vvid  all  yo  might  en  main, 
Chrismus,  it  am  here  again; 
Chrismus  come  but  once  a  year; 
Wen  it  come  we  has  a  sheer; 
Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 

Turkey,  he  am  mighty  proud; 

Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 
Struttin'  roun'  en  gobblin'  loud; 

Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 
I'll  pick  his  bone  en  spread  his  wing: 

Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 
Chickin's  neck  I'se  g\vine  to  ring; 

Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 

Sing  \vid  all  yo  might  en  main, 
Chrismus,  it  am  here  again; 
Chrismus  come  but  once  a  year; 
Wen  it  come  we  has  a  sheer; 

Ah  ha,  oo  hoo. 


Thus,  and  long,  in  sweet  concordance 
Come  the  song  and  quaint  refrain, 

Trooping  merrily  and  welcome 
Down  the  years  in  mcm'ry's  train. 


Daylight  comes,  and  Christmas  morning 
Glides  in  through  the  F.astern  rift, 

And  the  "people" — old  and  young  ones — 
"Ketch"  the  white  folks'  "Christmas  gift." 

Mammy  herds  the  whooping  youngsters — 
White  and  black — within  her  call; 

Mistress  scatters  Christmas  presents 
From  the  quarters  to  the  hall. 

Master  storms,  in  anger's  pretense, 

In  and  out,  about  the  place, 
But  the  soul  of  all  his  goodness 

Glistens  in  his  jolly  face. 

Love  and  joy  with  song  and  dancing, 

In  the  olden  Southern  ways, 
Tinted  with  the  holy  story, 

Sped  the  happy  holidays. 

Now  the  banjo,  harp  of  Southland, 
Tuned  with  us  in  homely  rhyme 

Rest,  and  with  it,  'neath  the  willow, 
"Chrismus  in  de  ole  time." 


SOME  SINGIN'. 


HEY  talked  so  mighty  monst'ous  much 

About  de  white  folks'  singin' 
Up  in  de  big  high-steeple  chu'ch 

Hit  sot  my  years  a-ringin'. 
So  up  I  goes  an'  tuck  a  seat 

Jis'  whar  de  sexton  p'inted, 
As  'umble  dar,  at  Jesus'  feet, 

As  any  onann'inted. 

De  ban'  struck  up,  and  I  declar' 

Hit  nearly  froze  my  livah, 
An'  almos'  raised  my  kinky  ha'r 

An'  made  my  marrer  shivah. 
An'  when  cle  singin'  started  in, 

Away  up  in  de  gal'ry, 
Hit  sounded  like  a  cotton-gin 
A-screekin'  fur  a  sal'ry. 

Dar  warn't  no  soun'  like   "hallalu!" 

An'  "Jordan's  stormy  rivah," 
"Char-i-o'  svvingin'  low  fur  you," 

As  evah  I  could  skivah. 
Hit  warn't  de  good  ole  shoutin'  songs 

\Ye  has  at  cullud  preachin', 
Whar  glory  an'  de  love-feas'  b'longs, 

Soul-sarchin'  an'  heart-reachin'. 


GIVE  THANKS. 


.44 


IYK  thanks!  Give  thanks!  Hear  the  bells  a  ringing; 
Give  thanks!  Give  thanks!  Hear  the  choir  singing; 
\Vhile  some  souls  are  crying  out: 
What  shall  I  give  thanks  about  ?" 
"  My  child  is  gone  !  "     "  My  wife  is  dead  !" 
"  My  fortune's  lost  !  "      "I'll  curse  instead  !' 
"  Cease, ye  bells  a  ringing;  hush  the  choir  singing; 

Woe  my  soul  is  stinging;  heart  in  anguish  wringing. 

No  place  hath  praise,  within  me  here, 

But  all  is  anger,  pain  and  fear." 

Hold  ye!    Hold  ye!    List  the  promise  given! 

Blest  shall  they  be,  who,  in  sorrow  driven, 

Pass  beneath  the  chast'ning  rod, 

Loving  ever,  trusting  God. 

Be  strong;  fail  not,  bend  low  the  head, 

So,  in  sweet  peace,  shall  ye  be  led, 

Ever  in  the  joyful  singing:  To  the  cross  I'm  clinging, 

Angels  round  thee  winging,  while  the  bells  are  ringing: 

"  Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 

Praise  Him  all  creatures  here  below."    Amen. 


MARGARET. 


ILL  I  try  to  sing  a  love-song? 

Indeed  I  will  and  sweet; 
And  from  my  heart  as  true  and  strong, 
As  in  its  throbbings  might  belong, 

Had  it  a  younger  beat. 
I'll  sing  of  love  that  none  have  seen 

Since  Christ  paid  all  the  debt, 
Till  came  sweet  Charity's  own  queen, 
As  humble  as  the  Nazarene, 

Big  hearted  Margaret. 


A  wedded  maid,  and  peerless, 

With  beauty  none  at  all, 
But  a  soul  as  pure  and  fearless, 
And  as  crystal  in  its  clearness 

As  Eve's  before  the  fall. 
Her  spouse  was  simple  Tenderness, 

Her  babes  the  waifs  and  strays, 
The  fatherless  and  motherless, 
The  little  ones  of  dark  distress 

Along  life's  rugged  wrays. 


The  God  above  will  greet. thee 

And  He  who  said  of  old, 
"Let  little  ones  come  unto  me" 
And  blessed  them  at  His  holy  knee, 

Will  take  thee  to  His  fold, 
Thy  statue  and  thy  monument 

In  loving  hearts  arc  set, 
The  emblems  of  thy  good  intent, 
The  work  to  which  thy  soul  was  bent, 

Love  sainted  Margaret. 


THE   GOURD  BESIDE  THE   SPRING. 


HE  gallant  knight,  in  days  of  old, 

Sang  gaily  flagon  songs; 
The  monarch  drained  his  cup  of  gold 

And  laughed  his  people's  wrongs; 
With  goblets,  flowing  to  the  brim, 

Bacchantes  drink  their  wine, 
But  no  alluring  rosy  rim 

Brings  song  to  harp  of  mine. 

Yet  notes  of  memory  sweetly  come 

In  songs  I  love  to  sing, 
Of  hearty,  healthy  bumpers,  from 

The  gourd  beside  the  spring '. 


The  soldier  loves  his  old  canteen, 

And  sounds  in  song  its  praise; 
The  lover  toasts  his  mistress  queen 

In  wine-begotten  lays; 
The  soul  of  poesy's  outpoured 

Alike  to  cup  and  king, 
And  all  forget  the  brown  old  gourd 

They  drank  from  at  the  spring. 


There's  happiness  in  banquet  halls, 

Amid  the  bright  and  gay, 
Where  brilliant  song  the  soul  enthralls, 

And  wit  and  wine  hold  sway; 
But  all  the  joys  in  memory  stored 

No  sweeter  thought  can  bring 
Than  those  of  draughts  from  out  the  gourd, 

With  Nell,  beside  the  spring. 


A   PANSY    PICTURE. 


OU  gave  to  me  one  day,  in  thoughtless  way, 

A  purple  pansy  bloom — I  have  it  yet- 
That  day  my  heart  was  light  and  I  was  gay, 
Now  I  am  sad  and  trvincrto  forcret. 

»          *r>  o 

I  pressed  the  cherished  flower  in  a  book; 
It  stained  the  leaves    and   left    its    image 

there, 
As  on  my  soul  is  printed  every  look 

You  gave  me  then,  and  made  the  world  so 
fair. 


Now  won't  you,  darling,  leave  one  little  sign, 

Before  the  time  when  you  and  I  must  part, 
That  some  fond  word  or  loving  act  of  mine 

Is  printed  in  your  kind  and  gentle  heart, 
To  be  my  friend  at  court,  until  the  day 

When  favoring  fate  shall  give  me  rule,  alone, 
And  I  can  come  to  bring  my  queen  away, 

To  share  my  life  and  love's  ecstatic  throne? 


HE   tiger's  cub  was  gentle,  and  it   played  with    a 

little  child; 
Its  feet  were  velvet  cushions,  and  its  brown  eyes 

meek  and  mild; 
The  changes  came  so  softly  that  its  playmate  had 

not  seen 

The  cruel  claws  in  velvet  and  the  brown  eyes  glint 
ing  green; 

The  child  is  lying,  mangled,  in  the  fierce  and  reek 
ing  jaws, 

And  the  tiger's  cub  has  torn  him,  'neath  his  velvet- 
hidden  claws, 

*** 

I  knew  a  youth 
Of  strength  and  truth, 
And  mein  of  a  manly  man, 
Who  marched  along 
With  laugh  and  song 
In  Pleasure's  troop  and  van! 
High  hope  was  his,  and  noble  aim; 

He  sealed  a  lover's  vow, 
And  climbed  the  dazzling  steeps  of  fame, 
Where  Fortune  kissed  his  brow. 


The  way  was  bright, 

His  heart  was  light, 
And  friends  by  legion  came 

In  joyous  throng, 

To  swell  his  song 
And  echo  his  sounding  fame. 
They  lifted  high  the  bowl,  and  drank 

His  health  and  sparkling  wine, 
Amid  the  bloom  of  the  primrose  bank 
And  under  the  shading  vine. 

In  shade  of  vine, 

From  lees  of  wine, 
A  mocking  monster  came 

And  seized  the  boy 

Amid  the  joy 
And  luster  of  his  fame! 
The  wanton  demon  dashed  the  drink 

With  poverty  and  dread, 
And  drove  the  youth  to  ruin's  brink— 
The  singing  troop  had  fled. 


With  leers  and  limps 

The  comrade  imps, 
In  howl,  and  grin,  and  yell, 

Tore  at  his  soul; 

His  manhood  stole 
And  dipped  him  deep  in  hell; 
'Mid  horrors  that  no  mortal  tongue 

Could  ever  tell  aright, 
They  dragged  his  life  and,  screaming,  flung 
His  honor  into  night. 

But  strong  and  fast 

There  came,  at  last, 
A  good,  gray  man,  and  bold — 

A  monarch's  peer 

Who  bore  a  spear 
Tipped  with  a  point  of  gold; 
He  drove  the  devil  crew  away 

And  raised  the  youth  upright, 
And  led  him  back  to  honor's  day 
And  love's  sweet  song  and  light. 


The  saved  one  sings; 

The  joy  bell  rings, 
And  friends  have  come  again, 

In  joyous  throng, 

To  swell  the  song 
And  praise  the  goodly  reign 
Of  him,  the  hero,  sage  of  Dwight, 

Who  came,  as  knight  of  old, 
To  send  the  imps  of  hell  to  flight 
Before  his  spear  of  gold. 


*  * 
* 


The  tiger's  cub  was  gentle,  and  it  played  with  a  little  child; 
Its  feet  were  velvet  cushions,  and  its  brown  eyes  meek  and  mild; 
The  changes  came  so  softly  that  its  playmate  had  not  seen 
The  cruel  claws  in  velvet  and  the  brown  eyes  glinting  green; 
Then  came  a  gallant  lancer — a  good,  gray  man,  and  bold, 
Who  slew  the  snarling  tiger  with  his  gleaming  spear  of  gold. 


4*. 


OLD   CATO'S   CREED. 


'SE  heard  a  monst'ous  heap  er  talk 

'Bout  th'ology  an'  creeds, 
But  you  hear  me  a  shoutin'  now, 

Dar's  nuthin'  like  good  deeds. 
Jes'  gimme  sweet  religion,  please- 

I  don't  keer  what's  its  name — 
De  Methodis'  or  Babtis'  kind 

Will  save  you,  jes'  the  same. 

I'm  on  my  road  to  Heaven  sho', 

An'  aint  got  time  to  talk; 
Ef  you  is  gwine  'long  wid  me 
You's  got  to  walk  de  chalk; 
Ole  Petah's  standin'  at  de  gate 

An'  hit  am  wide  ajar, 
But  jes'  a  lettah  f'um  de  church 
Won't  take  you  in  thoo  dar. 

He  gwineter  ax  you,  mighty  close, 

All  'bout  yo'  daily  walk, 
An'  ef  you  holp  de  neighbor  po' 

Wid  sompen  else  but  talk; 
He  gwine  to  sarch  you  thoo  an'  thoo, 

An'  sho'  as  you  is  bawn, 
Ef  you  aint  right,  you'll  wish  that  Gabe 

Had  nevah  blowed  his  hawn. 


You'll  sec  olc  Mary  shinin'  dar, 

An    Paul  an'  Silas,  too, 
An'  Moses  an'  de  other  ones. 

De  ship  er  Zion's  crew; 
An'  nary  one  will  have  a  creed 

Ascep'  de  chas'enin'  rod, 
An'  all  will  sing  a  "hallalu"' 

Aroun'  de  throne  er  God. 


BABY'S   MORNING. 

HEN  morning  comes  and  sunlight  streams 
In  tender,  soft  and  golden  gleams, 
And  through  the  curtains  dancing  beams 

Steal  coyly  in  the  room, 
My  baby  wakes  in  grave  surprise, 
And  turns  her  great  and  wondering  eyes 
Toward  the  shimmering  matin  dyes 
That  tint  the  lily  bloom. 


'Tis  double  morn  to  thec,  sweet  one — 
The  morn  of  day  and  a  life  begun — 
God  grant  thy  day  and  life-time's  sun 

May  ever  sweetly  shine; 
That  happiness  without  alloy, 
That  cannot  fail  or  ever  cloy, 
And  brightest  rays  of  purest  joy, 
May  bless  each  hour  of  thine. 


\  OFT  the  south 
ern  moon  is 
shining; 

Sly    the    star  of 
evening  peeps 


Through  the  honeysuckles,  twining 

'Round  the  window  where  she  sleeps — 
Where  my  honey,  true-love,  sleeps. 

Gently  now  the  wind  is  blowing; 

'Along  the  leaves  the  dewdrop  gleams, 

While  the  scent  of  roses  growing 
Fills  the  .sweetness  of  her  dreams, 
An'  her  face  with  love-light  beams. 

Ncnv,   my  mocking-bird,  sing  true, 

TJio    the  old  owl  hoots  "to  who?" 

An'  the  ring-dove  says  "not  you!" 
So  the  mock-bird's  softly  trilling, 

From  his  trembling  heart  and  mouth; 
That  sweet  song,   my  soul  is  filling, 

For  my  honey,   'way  down  South. 

Down  the  winding  river,  drifting, 

J  am  coming,  love,  to  you; 
Through  the  trees  the  moonlight's  sifting; 

'Cross  my  dugout,  gum  canoe, 

Coming,  honey-love,  to  you. 
In  the  deep,  dark  woods  a-hiding, 

Pipes  the  whining  whip-poor-will, 
All  the  other  birds  a-chiding, 

With  his  plaintive  "still,  be  still!" 

Like  my  heart,  old  whip-poor-will. 


PARADOX. 


SAW  saw  a  poor  old  toper  stand 

At  break  of  day,  one  chilly  morn — 
In  this,  our  free,  enlightened  land, 
An  abject  slave,  distressed,  forlorn — 
Stand  chilled,  and  aching  to  the  core, 
Before  an  open  rum-house  door, 
And  while  within  he  trembling  gazed — 
His  nerves  unstrung  and  reason  dazed — 

Upon  the  liquids  at  the  bar, 
f-n 

He  said,  in  voice  of  yearning  raised, 

"Thou  art  so  near  and  yet  so  far." 

A  little  later  on  I  saw 

A  poor  and  ragged,  starving  wretch, 
Stand  shivering  in  the  ait  so  raw, 
Before  the  broad,  inviting  stretch 
Of  cafe  window,  richly  filled 
With  meat  and  game,  but  freshly  killed, 
And  quail  and  poultry,  neatly  dressed, 
And  trimmed  and  garnished,  water-cressed, 

A  tempting  menu  for  a  czar — 
The  ragged  man  the  sight  addressed, 
"Thou  art  so  near  and  yet  so  far." 

I  saw  a  bankrupt,  standing  where 

His  yearning  eyes  could  plain  behold 


A  mass  of  jewels,  rich  and  rare, 
And  stacks  of  silver  and  of  gold; 

He  thought  of  bright  and  happy  days, 
Of  business  brisk  and  prosperous  ways, 
And  then  of  creditors  and  debt, 
And  duns,  that  now  his  path  beset; 
His  paper,  worse  than  under  par, 
And  cried,  in  tones  of  deep  regret, 
"Thou  art  so  near  and  yet  so  far." 

I  heard  a  sighing  lover  plead 

For  pity  from  his  favored  fair, 
He  swore  she  was  his  faith  and  creed 
And  praised  her  eyes  and  auburn  hair; 
He  knelt  and  prayed,  and  raved  and  tore, 
And  wept  and  shed  his  tears,  galore. 
She  melted  not  to  see  him  so, 
But  gave  a  strong,  persistent  "  no." 

Then,  while  he  watched  his  fading  star, 
He  groaned  as  he  beheld  her  go, 
"Thou  art  so  near  and  yet  so  far." 

I  saw  a  soldier,  old  and  lame, 

Go  begging  for  his  daily  bread; 
I  saw  a  poet  strive  for  fame, 

Who  won  it — after  he  was  dead. 
The  world  is  full  of  gold  and  gear, 
Of  health,  and  wealth,  and  goodly  cheer. 


Yet  poverty  and  dire  distress 
Prevail  among  us  none  the  less, 

And  hearts  will  sigh,  that  wear  a  scar 
And  lips  that  Dead  Sea  apples  press, 

"Thou  art  so  near  and  yet  so  far." 

'Twas  ever  thus,  that  those  who  need 

The  most  of  pity  and  of  aid — 
And  often  those  of  greatest  meed- 
Good  Fortune  doth  the  most  evade. 
The  fickle  dame  will  grind  and  rasp 
The  hand  that  seeks  her  toys  to  grasp; 
'Tis  he  who  delves  the  hardest  way 
Who  wins  a  grudged  and  meager  pay, 

So  here  I  loll,  with  my  cigar, 
While  others  whine  their  "lack-a-day," 
"Thou  art  so  near  and  yet  so  far." 


MOUNT  OF  THE   HOLY   CROSS. 


HERE  Nature's  God  hath  roughest  wrought 
Whcie  spring  the  purest  fountains; 
Where,  long  ago,  the  Titans  fought, 
And  hurled  for  n>issiles,  mountains; 
Where  everlasting  snows  abide, 
And  tempest  clouds  are  driven 
Along  the  solid  granite  side 
Of  yawning  chasms,  riven 
Deep  in  the  Rockies'  grandest  pride, 
That  lifts  its  head  to  Heaven; 


^  \.-;  Amid  the  wilds,  where  awful  rise 

*  The  giant  peaks,  that  fathom 

Night's  starry  depths  and  day's  blue  skies, 
And  brood  above  the  chasm, 
One  monarch  'mongst  the  mighty  hills 
Rears  high  his  summit  hoary, 
Like  some  grim  king,  whose  legend  fills 
A  page  of  olden  story, 
And  heart  o'er-awes  and  soul  enthrills, 
Before  his  regal  glory. 


The  Holy  Cross  of  Christian  faith, 

Above  the  royal  velvet, 

In  beauty  shines,  an  emblem  wraith, 

High  on  his  beetling  helmet; 

Its  whitearms stretching  through  the  sheen 

Of  silvery  mist,  are  gleaming; 

A  talisman,  the  world  to  screen, 

Hope's  symbol,  in  its  seeming; 

A  wonder  grand,  a  joy  serene, 

Upon  the  ages  beaming. 


JUBE'S   OLD   YALLER  DOG. 


SE  bc'n  a-trav'lin'  thoo  dis  vale 

Nigh  on  to  eighty  years, 
An'  now  my  eyes  is  'gun  to  fail 

\Vicl  \veepin'  bittah  tears.     , 
My  po'  ole  wife  is  goned  above — 

De  way  Ise  gwine  to  jog — 
An'  all  dat's  left  fur  me  to  love 

Is  dat  ole  valler  do«\ 


My  chillun's  scattered  here  an'  thar, 

An'  wouldn't  know  me  now, 
But  we  will  pass  de  gates  ajar, 

At  jedgment  day,  I  'low, 
An'  while  I  make  de  'stressful  rounds 

Thoo  all  dc  damp  an'  log, 
Of  clese  yar  wearisome  low  grounds, 
Tse  got  dat  yaller  dog. 

\Ve's  hunted,  many  a  livelong  night, 

De  'possum  an'  de  coon, 
An'  cotch  'em  by  de  silvah  light 

Of  many  a  southern  moon. 
\Ve's  built  a  bla/.e  an'  cooked  de  meat 

'Longside  a  big  back-log, 
An'  had  some  times  mos'  monst'ous  sweet — 

Jis'  me  an'  dat  ole  dog. 


An'  long  as  T  is  stayin'  here 

Ise  got  one  frien',  I  know; 
Ef  I  is  po'  de  dog  don't  keer — 

His  head  don't  run  on  show. 
An'  long  as  I  is  got  a  bite 

Er  hominy  an'  hog, 
Ise  gwinc  to  'vide — you  jis'  is  right- 

\Vid  dat  ole  yaller  dog. 


"LE   REVK." 

|LEEP,  ah  sleep,  ye  brave,  and  listen, 

In  your  dreams  to  battle's  hum; 
See  the  foeman's  armor  glisten; 

Hear  the  bugle-note  and  drum. 
Heads  that  rest  on  unslung  knapsacks, 

'Neath  your  blankets  and  the  night, 
Close  beside  the  bristling  gunstacks, 

Dream  of  morrow  and  the  fight, 

From  the  cottage-homes  or  manors, 
Whence  ye  came,  a  nation's  pride, 
Prayers  are  rising  for  your  banners, 
And  that  weal  may  them  betide. 
Twixt  the  hearthstone  and  the  bivouac, 

Love  is  whisp'ring  words  of  cheer; 
Twixt  the  pillow  and  the  knapsack, 
Love,  in  dreams,  brings  lovers  near. 

When  those  heads     are  white  with  glory, 

When  the  shadows  from  the  west 
Lengthen   as  ye  tell  your  story. 

In  the  vet'ran's  ward  of  rest, 
May  no  ingrate's  word  of  sneering 

Reach  one  heart  of  all  the  brave, 
But  may  honor,  praise  and  cheering 

Guard  old  valor  to    the  grave. 


EDGAR   WILLIS   NYE. 

VE  watched  thy  conspicuity, 
It's  growth  and  continuity, 
And  wished  thy  contiguity, 

Bill  Nye. 

I've  enjoyed  thy  lucidity 
And  thine  artless  timidity, 
Combined  with  intrepidity, 

Have  I. 


No  other  man's  jocundity 
Hath  near  so  much  profundity, 
Nor  yet  the  same  rotundity, 

Bill  Nye. 

And  them  findest  it  lucriferous — 
The  same  as,  argentiferous — 
While  the  cheering  is  vociferous, 

Aye,  aye. 

But  now,  discarding  levity, 
Assuming  proper  brevity — 
I  wish  to  thee  longevity, 

Bill  Nye. 


And  I'm  praying  rever-ent-ly 
That  the  sweet  subse-quent-ly 
Will  deal  with  thee  most  gently, 

Bye,  bye, 


IMPROMPTU. 


N  the  still  and  the  noon  of  the  night 

I  hear  the  tick  of  the  clock, 

As  I  muse  by  the  flickering  light 

And  list  to  the  time  unlock. 

In  the  buzz  and  the  hum  of  the  day, 
The  tick  of  the  clock  is  unheard, 

But,  nevertheless,  it  sings  ahvay 
Its  changeless  good-bye  word. 

To  moments  consigned  to  the  past — 
The  moments  of  time,  that  unfold 

The  way  to  the  open  door  at  the  last, 
And  the  gate  to  the  life  untold. 


' 

I     :   —.y 


^c 


MY   VILLAGE   HOME. 


To  Opts  Read. 

N  Memory's  halls  my  dear  old  home, 

And  boyhood's  bright  and  happy  days, 
Shall  live  with  me  where'er  I  roam, 

And  light  me  with  their  gladsome  rays 
Along  life's  hard  and  thorny  ways. 

Long  years  had  passed,  and  many  friends 
Were  wishing  I  would  come  again— 

And  others  too — for  Hate  oft  bends 

Before  the  throne  of  years,  like  grain 
Before  the  wind  and  hail  and  rain. 

As  thus  a  welcome  I  had  earned 

Of  hearty,  good,  and  kindly  will, 
With  joy  my  wandering  steps  I  turned, 

And  sought  my  old  home  on  the  hill, 

And  those  who  fondly  loved  me  still. 

Just  where  the  turnpike  rounds  a  ledge, 
O'ergrown  with  flowers,  turf  and  moss, 

Where,  underneath,  a  thick-set  hedge 

Caught  many  an  autumn's  heaps  of  dross, 
That  northwinds  from  the  branches  toss, 


My  heart  was  gladdened  once  again 
By  sight  of  what,  in  fitful  gleams, 

Had  oft  been  pictured  to  my  brain, 
In  slumber's  fancy — blessed  dreams — 
My  mountain  home,  its  hills  and  streams. 

The  sun  just  tipped  the  trees  with  light, 
Their  lengthening  shadows  fell  by  mine, 

And  in  the  far-off  distance,  bright 
I  saw  the  gleaming  steeples  shine, 
And  sunset  gild  the  waving  pine. 

I  gazed  enraptured  on  the  scene — 
Below,  the  vale,  beyond,  the  town 

Just  peeping  through  its  leafy  screen, 
And  stood  there  till  the  sun  went  down, 
And  darkness  gathered  all  around. 

Then  on -with  eager  haste  I  bent— 
Across  the  bridge  and  up  the  road, 

And  to  my  limbs  new  strength  was  lent, 
And  lighter  grew  my  heavy  load 
As  near  and  nearer  home  I  strode. 

The  stage  coach,  and  its  weary  four, 
Came  slowly  up  the  stony  hill, 

And  save  the  mill-dam's  sullen  roar, 
The  night  was  silent,  calm  and  still; 
Hushed  e'en  the  music  of  the  rill. 


But  when  the  driver  wound  his  horn, 
A  hundred  watch-dogs  bayed  aloud; 

The  hills  threw  back  the  notes  in  scorn, 
And  tower'd  higher,  darker-browed, 
Beneath  their  crowns  of  silv'ry  cloud. 

I  strolled  on  through  the  quiet  street, 
Where  tall  old  trees,  on  either  hand, 

Wept   dew-drops,  bowed,  and  seemed  to  meet, 
And  sighed,  while  gentle  breezes  fanned 
The  face  of  this,  my  native  land. 

I  stood  a  moment  by  the  gate, 
Before  a  little  cottage  door 

Where  oft  I'd  lingered  sadly  late 
With  one  I  loved  in  days  of  yore — 
Love  now,  and  shall  forevermore. 

A  lamp  within  sent  mellow  light 
Far  out  into  the  darkness  wild, 

And  on  the  curtains,  pure  and  white, 
Were  blent,  in  shadow-pictures  mild, 
A  kneeling  mother  and  her  child. 

I  knew  it  was  my  heart's  first  love, 
Whom  bitter  fate  had  torn  from  me — 

To  waft  her  orisons  above, 

She  knelt,  her  child  beside  her  knee — 
It  was  my  boy-love,  Ella  Gree. 


Then  lifted  was  my  heart  with  hers, 
To  that  bright  realm  beyond  the  sky, 

Where  angel  voices,  'mid  the  spheres, 
Chant  "  Blessed  be  the  Lamb  on  High," 
In  sweetly  sounding  symphony. 

I  prayed  that  Heaven's  blessings  should 
Forever  circle  'round  her  brow; 

That  smiling  Fortune  kindly  would 
Her  life  with  gracious  gifts  endow, 
And  endless  happiness  allow. 

Of  those  who  were  my  schoolmates  dear, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  happy  hearts, 

I  found  them  aged,  worn  and  sere, 
Engaged  in  wealth  engendering  arts 
And  chasing  treasures  in  Life's  marts. 

Around  them  clustered  boys  and  girls, 
Just  such  as  we  in  by-gone  days; 

Whose  joyous  shouts  and  dancing  curls 
Brought  back  to  me,  in  halcyon  rays, 
The  golden  time  that  never  stays. 

I  lived  my  young  life  o'er,  among 

The  scenes  my  boyish  days  had  known; 

In  sylvan  aisles,  where  echoes  rung 
To  laugh  or  shout,  or  mocking  moan, 
In  clear  and  wild  and  startling  tone. 


Sometimes  along  the  green  hill  slopes 
I  rambled  with  my  schoolmates'  boys, 

And  felt  how  Age  bears  off  Youth's  hopes, 
And  tramples  o'er  our  vain-sought  joys, 
And  bursts  our  airy  bubble  toys. 

These  little  comrades  led  me  'round 
A  foot-path  on  the  mountain  side, 

Where  'twixt  the  hills,  with  mighty  bound, 
A  torrent  flings  its  sparkling  tide 
Down  to  a  lake,  deep,  blue  and  wide. 

And  then  through  caves;  in  brooks  and  mire; 

O'er  fallow-field;  through  wood  and  brake, 
Now  picking  berries  from  the  briar, 
Now  skipping  stones  upon  the  lake, 

Or  resting  for  some  laggard's  sake. 

Then  through  the  graveyard,  by  the  wood, 
Where  sweetly  bloomed  the  wild  vine  rose; 

There  once  the    church  and  school-house  stood; 
There  many  dear-loved  friends  repose, 
And  still  that  old-time  graveyard  grows. 

A  thicket  covers  now  the  ground 

That  many  a  year  had  bloomed  with  corn, 

Where,  as  a  boy,  I've  followed  round 
The  plowman,  many  a  rosy  man. 
And  with  him  blessed  the  dinner  horn. 


Old  Winter's  bleak  and  chilling  wind, 
And  rattling  sleet  and  driving  rain, 

A  grand  old  forest  used  to  find 
On  yonder  broad  and  level  plain, 
Now  covered  o'er  with  golden  grain. 

The  house  wherein  my  father  dwelt, 

And  where  his  father's  head  grew  gray; 

Beneath  whose  roof  my  mother  knelt 
And  taught  her  children  how  to  pray; 
Has,  like  those  loved  ones,  passed  away. 

Now,  far  from  all,  'tis  joy  to  think 

Remembrance  yet  hath  left  her  smiles, 

My  heart  to  home  she  still  doth  link; 
Her  potent  hand  blots  out  the  miles, 
And  visions  sweet  my  life  beguiles. 


A    MODERN    TEMPLE. 


To  Saw  /.  Stone. 

OT  many  short  and  fleeting  years, 

With  all  their  hopes,  and  joys,  and  fears, 
Have  marched  unhalting  to  the  dead, 
With  steady,  stern  and  silent  tread, 
Since  o'er  the  hills  and  valleys  here 
The  red  man  chased  the  panting  deer, 
And  by  the  dark  Missouri's  tide 
The  warrior  wooed  his  dusky  bride; 
Not  long  ago,  where  now  we  stand, 
With  blessings  rich,  on  every  hand, 
The  war-whoop  through  the  forest  rang, 

Among  the  pines  the  wild  winds  sang; 

The  screams  of  eagles  in  the  air 

Met  echo  in  the  gray  wolf's  lair; 

The  bison,  with  his  shaggy  mane, 

Grazed,  all  unharmed,  upon  the  plain; 

The  paddle  of  the  light  canoe 

Flashed  where  the  water-lilies  grew; 

In  nature's  garb  the  land  was  drest, 

From  mountain's  foot  to  craggy  crest, 

And  all  was  fresh,  untouched  and  wild, 

The  free  home  of  the  forest  child. 

But  soon,  from  toward  the  rising  sun, 

Was  heard  the  white  man's  axe  and  gun; 


The  forest  bowed  before  his  hand, 
And  as  a  garden  bloomed  the  land; 
The  ploughshare  turned  the  virgin  soil, 
And  rich  rewards  repaid  the  toil 
Of  every  hardy  pioneer 
Who  built  his  humble  cabin  here. 
Fair  cities  decked  the  boundless  west, 
And  here,  the  fairest  and  the  best 
Sprang  up,  as  if  the  builder's  arm 
Was  aided  by  a  magic  charm, 
And  soon  o'er  hill,  and  vale  and  stream, 
Was  heard  the  wild  and  startling  scream 
Of  swiftly- flying,  fire-fed  steed, 
Dashing  along  at  wondrous  speed, 
And  scattering  here,  far  and  near, 
Wealth  and  strength  in  his  proud  career 
And  thus,  among  the  gray  foot-hills, 
Spires  and  homes,  and  shops  and  mills 
Have  risen  as  though  genii  hands 
Had  wrought  where  this  fair  city  stands. 

The  rarest  of  the  glist'ning  gems 

Tiiat  deck  the  city's  brow — 
The  brightest  in  her  diadem, 

Is  this  we're  setting  now; 
And  he  who  gave  this  temple  name, 

Shall  crown  the  beauteous  queen, 
And  coming  years  shall  sing  his  fame 

And  keep  his  memory  green. 


Eacli  lovely  Muse,  \vho  has  a  place 

Within  this  temple  Brunei, 
His  dreams,  and  waking  thoughts,  shall  grace, 

And  bless  his  open  hand; 
For  'neath  the  sun,  no  fairer  shine, 

Since  Delphi,  lost  so  long, 
Was  ever  lifted  to  the  Nine 

Of  Art,  and  Soul,  and  Song. 

'Neath  this  broad  dome,  night  after  night, 

For  many  a  coming  year — 
'Neath  all  the  golden,  da/zling  light, 

From  yon  bright  chandelier, 
Shall  come  the  man,  the  maid,  the  dame, 

To  drink  from  pleasure's  cup, 
And  see  the  actor  strive  for  fame, 

And  hold  the  mirror  up. 

The  walking  thoughts  of  Avon's  bard, 

His  hero,  king  and  clown, 
His  guileless  maid,  and  bearded  pard, 

And  monk,  in  cowl  and  gown, 
Shall  often  picture,  on  this  stage, 

The  passions,  loves  and  hates, 
Of  every  nation,  land  and  age 

Outside  the  pearly  gates. 


The  soldier,  lady-love  and  king, 

Who  came  at  Buhver's  call, 
Shall  make  their  gallant  speeches  ring 

And  echo  through  this  hall, 
And  birds  of  song  their  notes  shall  trill 

'Mid  orange  groves  and  palms, 
And  every  heart  shall  feel  the  thrill 

Of  music's  potent  charms. 

Here  England's  pursy  Knight  shall  wince 

Before  the  Windsor  fays, 
And  Denmark's  melancholy  prince 

Shall  call  his  mimic  plays, 
And  handle  Yorick's  fleshless  pate, 

And  break  Ophelia's  heart, 
And  taming  handsome,  shrewish  Kate, 

Petruchio  '11  play  his  part, 

Here  Lear,  "every  inch  a  king," 

Shall  wear  his  monstrous  woes, 
And  Juliet  to  her  lover  cling 

Till  death's  releasing  throes; 
Macbeth  shall  rue  his  murd'rous  deeds 

In  crime's  entangling  mesh, 
And  Sin-lock,  with  revengeful  greed, 

Demand  his  pound  of  flesh. 


And  hunch-back  Richard,  cruel,  vile, 

Shall  meet  his  Richmond  here, 
And  on  great  Caesar's  fun'ral  pile 

Shall  fall  the  Roman  tear. 
The  jealous  Moor  shall  send  above 

Sweet  Desdemona's  soul, 
And  Pauline  prove  that  woman's  love 

Outweighs  the  power  of  gold. 

Bright  tears  of  joy  shall  dim  the  eye 

For  Darling  Jessie  Brown, 
Who  hears,  while  others  'round  her  die, 

The  welcome  slogan's  sound. 
Here  poor  old  Rip  shall  totter  in 

To  seek  his  little  cot, 
And  find  how,  in  Life's  rush  and  din, 

We  are  so  soon  forgot. 

The  earth,  the  sky,  the  boundless  sea, 

And  every  race  and  age, 
Before  these  scenes  shall  gathered  be 

Upon  this  spacious  stage. 
Here  Pleasure  with  her  smiles  shall  bring 

Surcease  from  daily  cares, 
And  dullen  Sorrow's  sharpened  sting, 

And  lift  the  woe  she  bears. 


THE   OLD    LOG    CHURCH. 


N  olden  walls,  in  memory's  halls, 
With  roses  'round  it  clinging, 
A  picture  rare,  of  antique  air, 
The  old  log  church  is  swinging. 

Of  timbers  rough,  and  gnarled  and  tough, 

It  stands  in  rustic  beauty, 
A  monument  to  good  intent 

And  loyal,  Christian  duty. 


The  forest  trees,  kissed  by  the  breeze 

Of  early  autumn  weather, 
Stand  grimly  by,  and  seem  to  sigh 
And  bend  their  boughs  together. 

They  seem  to  feel  that  woodman's  steel 

Will  come  to  end  their  glory, 
And  whisper  low,  and  soft  and  slow, 

Among  their  leaves,  the  story. 

Down  by  the  mill,  and  up  the  hill, 

And  through  the  hazel  thicket. 
And  o'er  the  mead,  brown   pathways  lead 

Up  to  the  rustic  wicket. 

And  by  these  ways,  on  holy  days, 

The  village  folk  collected, 
And  humbly  heard  the  Sacred  Word, 

And  worshipped  unaffected. 


Sweet  Fancy's  art  and  poet's  heart 

Can  see  the  old-time  preacher 
And  village  sage,  now  turn  the  page 

As  minister,  or  teacher. 

For  in  the  church,  with  dreaded  birch, 

On  week-days  he  presided, 
In  awful  mien,  a  tutor  seen, 

'Twixt  lore  and  licks  divided. 

But  where  it  stood,  in  dappled  wood, 

A  city  sprang  to  life, 
And  jolly  noise  of  barefoot  ooys 

Is  lost  in  business,  rife. 

With  years  now  flown,  the  children,  grown. 

Are  launched  on  life's  mad  billows; 
The  pretty  maid  is  matron  staid, 

The  master's  neath  the 


THE    KENTUCKIAN'S   LAMENT. 


USTER  live  in  old   Kaintuck  some  forty  year 

ago, 
An:  come  back  here  again,  to   stop,  a  week 

er  two,  cr  mo', 
But  now    I'm    goin'    back    out  west,  an*  stay 

thar  too,  my  son, 
Kase  I  don't  like  the  changes  that  the  times 

has  gone  an'  done. 

Thar   ustcr  be   a  little  crick  a  runnin'  'neath 

this  hill, 
An'    furder    down    thar  uster  stan'  a  monst'ous 

fine  old  mill; 
I've  waded   in  that  little   crick,  an'    fished   fur 

minners  thar, 

An'  watched  the  mus'rats   divin'   in   the  water 
fresh  an'  clar. 

I    uster    ride    a    grist    to   mill — a  sack  er  Injun 

cavvn — 
Jis  man}-  a  time,  in  them  old  days,  so  Song  'fo' 

you  was  bawn; 
An'  me  an'  all  the  yuther  boys — in  winter  time, 

you  know — 
Was  parchin'  cawn.  an'  swappin'  lies  ontell  we 

had  to  go, 


That   little   crick  has  gone  plum'  dry,  the  mill 

is  all  to'  down, 
An'  blamed  ef  they  ain't  tuck  the  spot  to  build 

er  onry  town, 
An'  whar  the  big-road  uster  run  thar's  growin' 

weeds  an'  grass, 
An'  thar's  a  cut,  clean  thro'  the  hill,  fur  railroad 

kyars  to  pass. 

Them    shell-bark  hick'ry   trees   is   gone,  whar 

me  an'  yo'  Aunt  Sue, 
Has  gather'd  nuts,  so  many  falls,  when  we  was 

size  er  you; 
An'    over  yan,    whar   houses   stan',  along   the 

south  hill  side, 
Thar  stood  the  woods,  an'  pawpaws  growed  an' 

possums  uster  hide 

The  boys  as    uster   play    witn    me,  wnen  I  was 

but  a  kid, 
Has  all   turned   gray — cep'  them  that's   bald— 

an'  some  the  ground  has  hid; 
An'    stid    er   jeans,  an'  home'ade   socks,  an'  all 

the  like  er  that, 
Sto'  close  is  all  the   go,  mer  son  them  an'  the — 

bee-<nim  hat. 


The  sasser  ain't  no  longer  used  to  po'  yo'  coffee 

in, 
An'  eatin'  with    yo'   knife  has  grow'd  to  be  a 

mortal  sin; 
An'  what  is  wuss  than  all  the  rest,  an'  seems  to 

me  mos'  quar' 
Cocktails,  an'   sich     like     truck   as     that,    has 

knocked  out  whisky  clar. 

These  things  is  much   too  much    for  me.      It's 

broke  my  heart  in  two, 
It's    ru'nous    to    the    country,    an'    it    aint'er 

gone'  ter  do; 
I'm    goin'    back — y6u    hear   me    shout — clean 

back  to  Washin'tun; 
I    wantcr   find   Old    Skookumchuck,    an'   stay 

thar.  too,  mer  son. 


niiiiiimiiiiiim    M 


IN    DEATH    AND   DEATHLESS   FAME. 


ROM  every  land  and  clime  beneath  the  sun, 

Peoples  had  come  and  brought  their  cunning  arts 

And  mysteries,  their  handiwork  and  ways 

To  build,  to  beautify  and  dedicate 

The  strange  White  City,  that  majestic  'rose 

Southward  along  the  inter-ocean  shores 

Washed  by  the  waters  of  Lake  Michigan. 

Among  the  triumphs  there,  of  classic  trend, 
The  columned  peristyle  and  chaste  facade, 
The  arches  and  the  monuments,  that  stood 

In  pleasing  and  imposing  mold  and  height, 

Upon  the  now  historic  ground,  was  one 

Exalted  tower  that  lifted,  snowy  white 

Its  square  and  sturdy  bulk,  strong   and  severe, 

Above  a  might}-  pile  that   held  such  stores 

As  could  have  stood  a  siege  and  amply  fed 

For  months  dependent  multitudes  of  men. 

The  fervid  sun  had  passed  the  noontide  line, 
And  pansy  dials  marked  his  slow  retreat, 
When  bursting  from  the  tower's  dizzy  top 
A  spurt  of  flame,  like  wicked  serpent's  tongue, 
Invoked  the  startling  fire  alarm  and  called 
A  band  of  brave  and  hardy  men  to  fight 
A  ioe  that  never  mercy  shows,  and  takes 
No  quarter,  no  defeat  but  utter  death. 


Like  warriors  of  olden  time  who  scaled 
The  high  and  massive  walls  and  battlements, 
Grim  bulwarks  of  a  bastioned  citadel, 
Dauntless,  these  heroes  of  a  better  day 
Climbed  to  the  tower's  top,  and  found  the  foe 
Had  lured  them  to  an  ambuscade  where  death 
Had  hid  to  snatch  them,  living,  to  his  den. 

Far  down  below,  against  the  tower's  base, 

The  raging  beasts  of  flame,  insatiate,  gnawed, 

And  'mid  the  smoke  and  heat  that  'rose 

To  choke  and  grill  the  fire-fighters  there, 

And  melt  away  their  foothold, balked  they  stood, 

While  horror-stricken  multitudes  looked  on. 

Among  them  veterans  of  many  wars, 

Who  groaned,  and  wept, and  shuddering  turned  away, 

Helpless  to  aid  these  heroes,  duty  caged, 

That  gazed  with  mute  despair  into  the  face 

Of  terrible  destruction,  and  waving 

Farewell  to  hope  on  earth,  and  to  the  world, 

Sprang  into  death  and  glory-guarded  fame. 


COMING    TO    ME. 


To  1'irj. 


VKR  the  bay  on  the  steamer 
At  noon  of  a  lovely  day, 
'Mid  sights  for  a  poet-dreamer 
To  dream  of  by  the  way; 


Out  on  the  long  pier,  reaching 
Far  in  the  blue  of  the  water; 
Out  where  the  gulls  are  screeching, 
Cometli  my  darling  daughter. 

Away  from  the  land  of  flowers; 

Away  from  the  Golden  Gate, 
Where  a  grand  young  city  towers, 

She  comes  as  I  longing  wait. 

Over  the  rock-ribbed  mountains, 

White  with  the  living  snow, 
Along  by  the  frozen  fountains 

That  in  the  moonlight  glow. 

Over  the  hills  and  pampas, 

Where  frost  at  morning  gleams, 

Where  the  wild  deer  frighted  scampers, 
Along  by  the  babbling  streams. 


She  comes  to  my  heart  that  was  crying; 

Coming  o'er  hill  and  lea; 
On  wings  of  love  she  is  flying, 

Coming,  thank  God  to  me. 

Whizz,  Oh  wheels  of  the  engine! 

Dive  thro'  tunnel  and  gorge, 
Swift  as  the  fishing  penguin, 

And  sing  as  ahead  you  forge. 


ANDO,  the  boy,  was  poet,  heaven-born, 
For  in  his  young  life's  fair  and  rosy  morn 
The  melodies  of  forest,  hill  and  dale, 
The  low,  sweet   song  of  wooing  nightingale, 
The  stillicide  of  snow  and  sleet  and  rain, 
The  saucy  echo's  mocking,  wild  refrain, 
The  buzzing  of  the  honey-laden  bees 
Among  the  bloom  of  peach  and  apple  trees 
And  music  from  all  nature  soft!)'  stole 
To  sweep  the  tuneful  wind-harp  of  his  soul. 

He  climbed  the  mountain  side,  and  saw  the  sea 
Come  marching   in  to  kiss  the  monarch's  knee, 
And,  in  its  slow  and  undulant  retreat, 
Spread  out  its  ermine  carpets  at  his  feet. 
The  fair,  the  good,  the  beautiful  and  true 
Were  to  his  rythmic  life  poetic  dew; 
Fair  Genius  lent  her  brightest  lamp  to  light 
Her  every  step  and  bless  his    gladdened  sight, 
And  Cando  sang  in  strong,  ecstatic  song, 
Of  what  he  saw  and  heard,  the  whole  clay  long 

Thus  as  he  sang,  at  every  rounded   pause 

His  playmates  clapped  their  rapturous  applause, 

Till  fierce  Ambition  sei/ed  the  poet  boy 

And  stole  away  his  adolescent  joy. 

Onward  to  manhood,  hand  in  hand  with  fame, 


Rushed  Cando;  and  the  glory  of  his  name 
Rang  through  t,he  State,  borne  on  the  cadent  breeze 
'Mid  loud  hazzas,  and  then  across  the  seas; 
Till  in  all  lands,  on  every  babbling  tongue, 
The  wonder  of  his  dazzling  fame  was  sung. 

Mellow  and  rich,  from  his  enraptured  shell, 
Glowing  and  strong,  the  sounding  numbers  fell; 
He  tuned  no  more  a  gentle  harp  to  win 
The  plaudits  of  his  youthful  kith  and  kin, 
But  eager  sought  the  tribute  and  acclaim 
Of  them  of  high  and  might}-  name  and  tame. 
Till. strong  he  stood,  in  glory  and  command, 
And  on  a  throne,  magnificent  and  grand, 
Young  Cando  sat  and  gazed  above  the  crowd, 
A  monarch  high  and  laurel -crowned  and  proud. 

From  distance  dim,  beyond  the  mighty  throng 

Came  faintly  now  the  reapers' harvest  song. 

No  more  heard  lie  the  loving  voice  of  home. 

The  tinkling  herd-bell  in  the  soft'ning  gloam, 

Or  lusty  crow  of  doughty  chanticleer 

Were    sounds  too  far  for  Cando's  kingly  ear. 

Fame's  vibrant  tongue  had  whelmed  the  homely  strains 

Of  Love's  dear  song  and  lullaby's  refrains — 

He  lived  to  learn  that  grand,  exalted  state 

To  lowly  born  is  mocker}-  of  Fate. 


THE    POET    KING. 

To  Chtii'lfS  Eupf-ne  flunk*. 

QUIET  man,  of  gentle  face, 

Yet  noble  mien  and  courtly  grace, 

To  need  and  sorrow  wed; 
For  lack  of  gold  his  worth  untold, 
.And  jealous  Fame  speaks  not    his  name, 

But  waits  till  he  is  dead. 


lie  sat  beside  a  limpid  stream 
And  saw  its  lucent  waters  gleam 
In  jewels,  rich  and  rare; 
And  in  the  hue  of  Heaven's  blue 
An  angel  face  of  gentle  grace 
Was  sweetly  mirrored  there. 

He  saw  the  flowers  bloom  and  blush 
From  cordial  morn  till  evening's  hush, 

And  listened  to  the  lay 
Of  cooing  dove,  so  full  of  love, 
And  drank  the  breeze  that  kissed  the  trees, 

In  happy,  hoiden  play. 

He  lived  in  contemplation  high, 
Of  all  the  glories  of  the  sky, 

And  sweetest  lessons  took 
From  earth  and  air;  the  bright  and  fair 
Of  every  place  and  age  and  race; 

And  read  from  Nature's  book. 


And  now  he  sits  upon  a  throne, 
A  monarch  in  a  realm,  his  own, 

And  hplds  the  universe 
Within  his  grasp,  with  tender  clasp 
A  regal  king  with  soul  to  sing; 

But  stript  oi  scrip  and  purse. 

Now  list  the  music  of  his  shell, 
And  hear  his  raptured  accents  tell 

Of  pure  and  noble  things, 
\\  ith  minstrel's  art,  and  poet's  heart, 
He  fills  the  bowl  that  soothes  the  soul, 

And  plays  upon  its  strings. 


JIM'S    LKTTKRS. 

O'   little  Jim!     I  think  er  him, 

An'  somethin'  in  me  cries, 
These  latter  clays,  when  thar's  a  haze 

Comes  in  his  mother's  eyes. 

Jis  now  an'  then,  I  see  it,  when 
She's  thinkin'  of  the  boy 

Who  went  away  one  summer's  clay   . 
An'  tuck  his  mother's  joy. 

'Twas  in  the  time  of  our  prime; 

Grim  war  was  callin'  loud, 
When  little  Jim  stepped  out  so  prim 

An'  han'some,  game  an'  proud. 

'Twas  sorter  so  I  coulden'  go— 

I  had  so  much  to  do, 
To  work  an'  find  for  them  behind, 

An'  see  the  old  folks  through. 

But  little  Jim,  whose  eyes  was  dim 

For  jes  a  second's  flight, 
He  up  an'  'lowed  he'd  be  the  crowd 

To  do  the  family  fight. 

But  Jim  could  write  as  well  as  fight, 

An'  when  his  letters  come, 
Up  at  the  head,  in  blue  an'  reel, 

Wns  flacrs  an'  fife  an'  drum. 


Indeed  an'  truth,  that  little  youth 

Had  pictur's  by  the  .score, 
An'  every  time  he  writ  a  line, 

He  sent  us  one,  or  more. 

Hut  Nancy  said  'at  when  she  read 

What  Jimmy  had  to  tell 
It  holp  her  through,  for  then  she  knew 

At  he  \vas  safe  and  well. 

But  attenvhile,  the  faint-like  smile 

Of  Nancy,  faded  out; 
The  mail  was  dumb — no  letters  come 

An'  hope  was  drown'd  in  doubt. 

The  other  men  come  home  again, 

But  Jimmy  wasn't  'long — 
In  battle's  strife  his  brave  young  life 

Had  j'ined  the  hero  throng. 
r 

An'  now  I  know  dear  Nancy  so, 
Her  eyes  with  tear-drops  dim, 

Tell  me  right  then,  she's  read  again 
Them  pictured  notes  from  Jim. 


DAUGHTERS  OF  AMKKICA. 

7*o  Gen.  George  /'.  Smith. 

Ring  out,  ye  bells,  your  sweetest  chimes-' 
Sing,  all  ye  poets,  dulcet  rhymes; 
Shout  loud,  ye  crowds,  in  strongest  praise 
Shine  out,  fair  sun,  in    softest  rays, 

And  dance  ye  rippling  waters. 
For  Freedom's  sous  will  sing  a  song, 
That  in  a  chorus,  high  and  strong, 
Shall  sounding  ring,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Whose  grandest  harmony  shall  be, 

America's  true  daughters. 

Oh,  they  are  loyal,  brave  and  true, 
And  fair  the  red,  and  white  and  blue, 
That  in  the  nation's  colors  rise, 
Shine  in  their  cheeks  and  brows  and  eyes, 

And  glow  upon  their  banners. 
From  ocean  shore  to  mountain  crest; 
From  north  and  south  and  easl    and  west; 
From  all  the  bright  and  beauteous  laud, 
They  come,  a  blessing  laden  baud, 

And  singing  sweet  hosannahs. 


With  cheering  words  from  such  a  mouth, 
As  thine,  oh  daughter  of  the  south! 
And  love  from  such  a  loyal  breast, 
As  thine,  oh  daughter  of  the  west! 

The  sons  can  never  falter. 
And  while  in  north  and  east  shall  stand 
The  loyal,  helping,  sister  band, 
Sweet  Freedom's  day  shall  know  no  night, 
But  ever  shall  the  flame  glow  bright 

Upon  the  country's  altar. 


A   COMING    MASTER. 


7\>  />'.  Arthur  Johnson. 

SIT  upon  my  vine-clad  porch— 

'Tis  summer's  ardent  weather— 
And  watch  the  breexes  toying  with 

The  thistle's  downy  feather. 
My  once  brown  hair  is  white  as  snow; 

My  hands  are  thin  and  wrinkled, 
But  better  eyes  have  never  yet 

In  such  an  old  head  twinkled. 

A  mile  away  and  up  the  road 

I  see  a  horseman  riding; 
He's  handsome,  even  thus  afar, 

His  noble  beast  bestriding; 
I  see  ni)-  daughter's  tender  look, 

As  wistfully  she  gaxes, 
And  mother  watching,  'neath  her  lids 

The  blush  the  rider  raises. 

That  gallant  horseman  coming  here 

So  often  at  sun-setting, 
And  mother's  anxious  looks  with  tears 

That  oft  her  cheeks  are  wetting, 
Are  signs  to  me,  that  growing  old, 

Some  da)'  I  will  awaken 
To  find  my  place  as  master  here 

By  that  young  horseman  taken. 


RENAISSANCE. 


To  B.  Art/no-  Johnson. 

WAS  in  the  fairest  season  of  the  year, 

That  conies  to  where  the  yellow  Tiber  flows, 
Southward,  among  Italia's  sunlit  hills, 

And  when  the  sweetest  bloom  of  Latium  blows, 
With  staff  and  dog  I  strolled  along  the  streets, 

Then  out,  and  far  away  from  modern  Rome 
Adown  a  fruit-tree  shaded  road  that  led 

Beside  the  walls  of  many  a  lordly  home, 
Then  on  to  Tusculum,  the  place  where  lie 

The  moss-grown  ruins  of  the  gleaming  pile- 
That  great  Lucullus  bravely  built,  ere  yet 

The  gentle  Nazarene,  with  God's  sweet  smile, 
Had  come  to  bless,  and  save  the  world,  and  die. 

I  wandered  mid  the  crumbling  walls,  and  mused 

Upon  the  scenes,  that  centuries  ago, 
Had  been  enacted  there  in  luxury, 

And  of  the  wealth  and  splendor,  and  the  flow 
Of  wit  and  wine  among  the  Roman  lords; 

Of  beauties  of  the  time,  in  robes  that  clung 
In  graceful  folds  about  their  faultless  forms; 

The  singers  and  the  dulcet  songs  they  su«g, 
Where  now  the  lizx.ard  and  the  winking  toad 

Lived  undisturbed,  and  vapors  damp  and  dank 
Arose  from  rotting  weeds  and  scum-hid  pools, 

And  where  the  gliding  snakes, white  bleached  and  lank 
Slid  in  and  out,  in  this  their  foul  abode. 


Akimbo,  'mid  the  ruins,  here  and  there, 

Stood  broken  marble  columns,  'gain.-.t  the  walls, 
And,  tumbled  from  their  niches,  statues  lay, 

Chipped  and  defaced,  along  the  weed-grown  halls. 
Upon  a  mound  of  crumbled  stone,  I  spread 

My  mantle  out,  and  half  reclining  there 
Petted  the  dog,  and  fed  him  from  my  pouch, 

Then,  drowsied  by  the  warm  and  sluggish  air, 
Fell  fast  asleep,  my  dumb  friend  guarding  me. 

In  fantasy  of  dreams  I  saw  and  heard 
Some  strange  and  pleasing  t lungs  of  long  ago, 

And  memory  caught  and  treasured  every  word 
And  sign,  of  that  ecstatic  reverie. 

The  while  walls  of  the  villa  stood  again, 

As  high  and  clean  as  in  the  days  before 
Decay's  first  touch  had  come  to  start  the  work 

Of  ruin,  and  to  break  and  topple  o'er 
The  towers  tall,  and  tear  the  facades  down. 

The  breath  of  summer  odors  floated  through 
The  halls  and  corridors,  and  fountains  sprayed 

Cool  waters  on  the  tropic  plants  that  grew 
About  their  bases,  and  redoled  the  air 

With  rich  perfumes,  the  scent  of  gaudy  bloom 
Half  hid  beneath  the  foliage  darkly  green, 

And  silken  curtains  from  far  Asia's  loom, 
In  graceful  drapings  screened  the  portals  there. 


Yet  silence  reigned,  save  the  soft  sighs  of  winds 

That  rustled  the  rich  hangings  of  the  walls, 
And  gently  played,  in  listless,  wanton  mood, 

Where  flowers  bloomed  within  the  frescoed  halls. 
Deserted  of  all  living  things,  an  air 

Of  mystery  dim,  as  in  cathedral  aisles, 
Pervaded  all,  and  ghostly  shadows  fell 

Athwart  the  bolts  cf  light  from  day's  bright  smiles 
That  shot  Tn  long  and  golden  lances  through 

The  high  and  latticed  transoms  of  the  doors. 
Then  day  bowed  low  before  the  sable  plume 

Of  night  that  laid  her  moonbeams  on  the  floors, 
And  lent:  the  shimmering,  light  a  softer  hue. 

The  statues  stood  again,  upright,  of  gods, 

Of  satyrs  and  of  nymphs,  within  the  place, 
And  soon  a  babel  'rose  of  ancient  tongues; 

A  revel  of  a  Pantheistic  race. 
Within  an  alcove,  near  to  me,  I  heard 

A  gross  old  bacchant  tell,  with  laugh  and  sigh, 
A  sweet  young  naiad,  of  a  time  one  night 

When  Horace  with  his  Lesbia,  drew  nigh 
To  him,  and  in  his  shadow  kissed  the  girl, 

And  wound  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  held 
Her  head  upon  his  breast,  while  breathing  low 

The  music  of  his  poesy,  that  welled 
Like  silver  fount,  and  pure  as  Oman  pearl. 


"Think  thou  of  that,"  he  said,  "and  yet,  perforce, 

I  stood  as  calm  as  marble  statues  must, 
But  never  will  my  memory  lose  the  scene 

Till  all  of  us  have  crumbled  into  dust. 
The  Phrygian  king,  when  standing  to  his  lips 

In  waters  cool,  with  fruits  above  him  hung, 
Dying  of  thirst  and  hunger,  did  not  feel 

Such  agony  as  the-n  my  spirit  wrung. 
Oft  when  Lucullus    gave  a  brilliant  feast, 

A  guest  came  near  this  marble  form  of  mine, 
Goblet  in  hand,  and  I,  a  bacchant  too, 

Could  catch  the  fragrant  odor  of  the  wine, 
And  thinkstthou  not  Tantalus  suffered  least?" 

And  other  busts  and  statues  held  converse, 

Of  poets,  wits  and  sages,  of  the  day 
When  Rome  sat  proud  upon  her  seven  hills, 

And  o'er  the  world,  as  mistress  held  her  sway; 
How  at  the  sumptuous  feasts  within  those  halls, 

\Yhen  rich  Lucullus,  wealthy  from  the  spoil 
Of  eastern  victories,  about  him  held — 

Far  from  the  city's  din  and  mad  turmoil— 
The  beauty  and  the  chivalry  of  earth. 

They  spoke  of  grand  Maecenas,  who  was  friend 
To  young  Lucretius,  Virgil,  and  the  rest. 

Whose  rich  and  never-dying  verse  should  lend 
Immortal  name  to  Roman  deeds  and  worth. 


I  woke  benumbed  and  chilled,  for  coining-  night 

Had  brought  its  added  dampness,  and  I  found 
The  dog  had  slain  a  score  of  venomecl  snakes, 

And  some  lay  writhing  yet,  about  the  mound. 
They'd  sought  to  wound  me  as  I  slept,  but  that 

True  friend,  the  trusty  dog,  had  met  them  there, 
Else,  with  my  classic  dream,  I'd  been  undone 

By  reptiles  that,  like  other  cowards,  dare 
Smite  but  the  helpless;   and  the  visior  taught 

A  lesson — that,  perchance,  is  old — to  me: 
Build  all  you  may,  'twill  crumble  into  dust, 

But  love,  and  thought,  and  song,  will  ever  be, 
Though  temples  fall  and  riches  come  to  naught. 


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Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


PS     Vi  s 


35U3  Harp  of  the  South 
V82h  _ 


AUG  1  4 


PS 

35 
V82h 


